wintry palms 

your love was like snow, 

beautiful to look at

bathed in pristine white

and melting by afternoon;

your soul was like 

a shard of ice, 

piercing and cold

the snowmans we built 

with our bare hands

crumbled before the sun rose

just like the dreams

we stuffed with 

bedsheet promises 

and empty pillowtalks

only to be blown away 

by the winter breeze

drifting in through 

the closed window;



closed window that remained 

shut

all through winter 

as you held my hand 

and walked me down 

photo albums and ranch stories

about ponies, hearth fires 

and riding saddles, 

talking about 

yin and yang and

the benefits of physiotherapy 

but never about

the infinite nature of stars

or the dull ache in our hearts 

that refused to fall 

in love;



love was your soft hands, 

cupping snowballs and 

flicking them at 

neighborhood kids, 

the same hands 

that held my heart 

with tenderness 

and comfort, 

love was me 

bringing you flowers

from the park

and kissing you on the cheek,

love was the two of us, 

at two separate alters

making false vows to another; 

our love was like snow,

pretty on camera 

but beneath the layers of white, 

scandalous and sad;

your soul was cold as ice 

when it left, 

as were your hands, tenderly 

dropping my heart 

back in its place

and leaving through 

the open window;


the open window 

that let the secret out

ripping your hands away

from mine;

my hands, 

that are still frozen

as i stare outside

the still open window

seeing your smile 

in the snow, 

waiting to be hit

by snowballs

and laughter. 

– 23rd May, 2017.

tangled touches 

— i was warned that you were no saint, 

your whispers echoing 

through my depths

as i let you 

embrace my fingers

with yours, 

knotting up tangle after tangle 

for me to unwind, 

for me to figure out 

all the smiles, cards and coffee shops

that you lead me to 

only to leave me halfway, 

mystified; 
— i was warned that you were a cruel sinner. 

but they were wrong; 

you sinned beautifully, 

your fingers worked through my soul like twas nothing but foamy water, 

tracing temporary patterns; 

slow and artistic, 

encaging me with your touch, 

painting melodies 

but

forever leaving before the final note; 
— i was warned that you sinned carefully, 

you left no traces behind; 

but you got sidetracked, darling;

my memories bear scars to prove them wrong,

they are laced with 

the aroma of your laughter, 

the length of your unrestrained curl on my pillow

and the movement of your fine fingers 

chopping onions in my kitchen; 

the faint touch 

of your fingers 

lies repressed 

beneath these rotting memory tissues;

— i was warned that you were no saint, darling.

but you let your guard down;

so for once, 

your memories remember 

submitting to my touch 

as mine remember,

submitting to yours.

Reflections.

When I look into the mirror this evening, 

I see laugh crinkles and smile lines. 

A couple hairs greying,

the stubble that’s not too bad,

brown irises that stare back and inside them, 

just a tingle of happiness that rocks my feet. 

I see goodness that overcame trials;

Hours spent at the graveyard I built in my mind for people who left,

Broken memories that stink like cigars and whiskey, playing like a scratched CD, 

Days spent on the couch in my underwear with chips and reality shows,

Taking my time to heal, to breathe a little more freely when I walked with an invisible burden, 

and not to sigh every night when I laid my broken body on the welcoming sheets,

repeating little miracles like mantras in my head, 

counting them on fingers bitten and rebitten. 

trying to climb out of bed every morning, to appreciate the sun, to put another piece of me that I lost back in its place. 

My eyes are more than brown. They’ve been to places everyone goes to in their own personal ways and when they returned to the reflection in front of me, 

they were brighter and happy being brown. Just brown. 

So when I look in the mirror, I see the leftovers of a fight; a damn hard one; a good one. 

And there are no more traces of You. 

The long sleeves hide my battle scars but You, 

You are long gone. 

sculpting kisses

there is a place where I remain, 

tethered at the edge

of something sensational

and satisfying

like the pauses,

the still in the air

before you leaned in

to kiss me. 
now you’ve gone 

as one with the wind 

chasing monuments

and gales of laughter 

tucked within the lines 

of your favorite books

and you’ve left me behind

in this timeless pause, 

always to await your lips
darling, the dust you sitrred

when you slammed the door

four rotten months ago 

has settled

and yet my heart 

jumps from a half slumber

every time it remembers 

the sculpted curves

of your smile. 

Calloused

My calloused palms 

have bled 

over the years, darling, 

easing into 

the beginnings 

I paved for myself

using your laughter

as my carving knife,

to battle the demons 

that danced 

in the creases 

of your forehead 

and the tensions 

of your shoulder blades, 

driving wedges

the size of universes 

between us, 

leaving us

tethering at cliff’s edge. 

My hands bled 

when I held you first, 

a tiny vessel holding 

all my joy in this world;

And they bled when

you danced with me

in the rain, darling, 

my blood flowing

happily along with 

the rivulets of rain. 

My calloused hands

bled when you laughed, 

when you sobbed. 

My calloused hands 

bled through the ages

and dried one final day, 

when they cupped your face

and whispered love

before they stopped 

bleeding forever. 

Pretti-fied Stories

Of all the boasts I make of being a writer, I must confess that I am struck speechless when I’m asked to tell a story. It isn’t easy stringing words together to make sense and is difficult still to make them appear . . . . . .  Pretty. Because let’s be honest, we all want pretty words. And pretty words only. We want them to give our minds something just as pretty to imagine; for they are either grieving or causing grief. And we need to feed them with hope, that one day, it would be different, that we would have new purposes. 

We need it all, we say; Pretty romcoms, pretty suicides, pretty deaths, pretty crimereports. Pretty words to dilute our reality checks, to make us perceive the miserable loop of reality as an endless roller coaster of happiness. But nobody ever attempts, do they? To make pretty words? 

No. Nobody has time for that. We can only designate these pretty words to pretty people. The art of making them pretty and stringing them together is worthless. Words are our key to survival but we still won’t indulge in that art. And to be given the job of welding them together to give hope, though false, to countless minds yearning to smile without having a worry in the world, now that’s a tough task. 

So excuse me if I can’t give you a story right away. Excuse me if I took a moment; many moments in fact, to collect all the pretty words possible to tell you a story that you want to hear. Excuse me for taking time to string together the reality that you live in which you refuse to look at with contentment. 

I’m sorry. I am a story teller with words and it takes time to figure out which of them are pretty enough for you. 

it’s reigning men

there was a chain you wore around your neck,

clashing with your t-shirt, dangling a million pieces

of a million broken hearts, each holding a million stories of a million lifetimes,

that you stole like the wallets from their bedsides

in the wisps of an early dawn,

after a night of whispered scandals

spent within the confines of a bedsheet,

in which you indulged to urge those secret lifetimes to be shared 

along with the oxygen in the cramped space, that could have fit universes, 

between your lips,

that traced down their million bodies, speaking a million lies,

leaving a trail of a million kisses that disappeared at the touch of sunlight,

leaving behind only the faint fragrance of a seductress’ perfume 

and the melancholic broken heart that asked for more and couldn’t stop 

like a crack addict attached to the high from which there is no escape

for they are puppets and they operate according to the will of your word 

that controls the strings attached to their breakable minds and breakable hearts 

that dangle from the chain around your neck,

clashing with your t-shirt but matching your eyes that smirk at me 

and before I know it, it is morning and only a trace of your scent remains on my fingertips,

and i’ve lost my wallet and you’ve gained a heart on your chain.