Not Here to Win Hearts.

Wearied by the vagaries of it all,
In constant wait of the impending doom
Lurking behind each culmination,
Like sadness on reaching the last page of a novel.
It waxes and wanes,
Never too sure to name it Love,
Never too strong to name it Hate.
With a tamed down curiosity
I proceed wearing my own flag of Humanity
Along with a sharpened brand of cynicism.
So, if you find me losing to make you win,
Don’t spare a moment in blithe consolation,
Know that I’m not here to win hearts…

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Waiting.

I hate this part of me.
That longs to see you vulnerable,
Tired in the battle against your own demons,
Yet, not wanting to be free.
It’s been an achingly long wait.
For your eyes to meet mine..
When you know we can’t get closer than this.
When I’m ready to look back unafraid.
I promise to be patient
For the poignant tales to find their expressions.
Through hideous truths
Or unabashed confessions
I promise our silence won’t brew a judgement.

Companions.

 

 

He smells like coffee on a lazy winter evening,
By me and my open book,
Wrapping the cold away as a shawl,
Bending so perfectly to match my form.

He smells like a newly varnished wood, on a sultry afternoon.
Listening to my worries amidst the television din.
Together we would believe the earth has stopped spinning,
And we would fight with so much passion.

He smells like my city, on ordinary nights,
Aloof from the festive fervor,
Privy to my desires, party to my adventures.
When we would share our sicknesses through contagious tears.

He smells like the rusty window grilles, drenched by a torrential morning rain
Lost in separate thought trails, yet meeting the same horizon,
Eyes locked in gulping down each others blues.
Praying for another day I get to live with you.

Magic

 

When I was tempted to sculpt your Eyes with my words,

Those corners adorned by clear sinusoids,

That robbed the sclera its immaculate white.

Desires selfish, lingered a vehement bite.

And when They were on me,

I could see the flames bluer than the sea,

Knowing why some thousand moths marched into Them

In all their ardour, in all Their fame.

In the eon that passed by between the blinks,

I sat transfixed by Their sublime brown, the iris too dared me a sink.

My ego vetoed against a praise commonplace,

As I let this connection sap on my linguistic intelligence.

My limbs felt bloodless, I had to quickly avert,

To stop the cold circulate – before it consumed my heart.

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