Posted in POEMS

(UNTITLED) 

You’re dying as we speak,

A minute at a time,

Its okay     

    I’ll      take     it       slow;

Breathe in,

Breathe out;

And off you go.

Run! As fast as you can!

Stop and you’re shot.

Well darlin’ that’s the plan!

Hold your breath,                          Count.

One Hundred,                  ninety-nine,                                Ninety-eight..

.

………….…One.

Reemerge. Repeat.

Hamsters on a wheel

A broken treadmill

Soldiers lined up for a phantom war.

Tick-tock tick-tock goes the clock.

You’re dying a minute at a time

You                      are                   dying

as

we                          s                  p             e                        a                                 

Posted in POEMS

Trajectories 

Our paths cross with countless strangers,  

Strangers who may never be more than a coffee encounter 

Or an empty seat on an otherwise full bus. 

But  maybe for the cost of coffee

Would come a million dollars?

Who knew that strangers 

With only one few hours to their credit 

Would lead to 

That long coffee which cost you 

That missed train, which led to

That empty bus seat, next to

That stranger, whose brief correspondence 

Sparked a thought.. Born of casual banter

Evolving into your next best seller. 

Posted in ARTICLES

LOVING INFNITY

I loved him, and he loved me. But happily ever after was never the end. How do you stay with a person who never craves you as you do him? What do you do when he makes you feel Everything- makes you feel beautiful and cherished inside out. Someone who treats your body like a shrine and can make you feel sinful in all the right ways. What do you do when the same person can go for weeks not talking to you, not because he doesn’t care, just that you were never as all consuming for him as he was to you.

After a point, your daily calls feel like an intrusion. Your ego feeds you sweet poison by whispering words of ‘why can’t he, why should I’…

I loved him and I still do, and I never had a cause to leave. He was never perfect, he was flawed and scarred. He was real, and I gave all that had to him `and I felt more secure than ever before.  But he was never mine.

One summer night as we made love, beads of perspiration coated us -a saga of the hot air and the act of passion. I remember looking into his eyes, the intensity of his stare shook me to my very core and I came and as he cradled me to him riding out his own climax I knew nothing could ever compare to that feeling of being truly content as on that ordinary hot summer night. We spoke for hours that night, I can recall some snippets of poetry and prose, some of politics, I can recall laughing till my sides ached and crying in his arms as my sobs shook us, joined as we were. I have many such memories imprinted into my mind; ordinary events, those of little importance in the grand scheme of thing.

Despite it all we fell apart, and I never stopped loving him. Alas, when has love ever been enough? We drifted apart smoothly just as we fell in love without conflict or confusion.

Some days we talk and it’s easy, familiar. The thought ‘what if’ does creep in, albeit rarely, but that passes quickly. I am still in love with him as he with me, nothing will ever change that. But our love made us choose to leave- we chose a happiness that surpassed what we had.

 Belonging to someone who never really owns you, to me was the worst sort of burden. The mind perceives deception especially when there are grounds for none. On the nights where I’d sit by the phone fighting ego, I felt weak, dependent, and needy. For me a middle ground never existed. For him, he knew he could never change because some people are just not wired that way.

Sometimes you can love a person to your very core and yet know that you have to walk apart.

He was real and yet unattainable. I still love him and I always will, but when has love ever been enough?

We’re lovers of infinity, in love with concepts and beings who never truly belong, to us or anyone else. We are the people cursed with a love whose intensity perhaps feeds of never being reciprocated… We are not the tales of unrequited love, or of dead lovers and forgotten dreams. We are not the summer ‘that was’; for these are the tragedies of love that mercifully end.

 

 

 

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