Maybe

 Maybe I was meant to be homeless 

Like a wandering ghost without an agenda.

Maybe I was meant to be a leaf lost in the wind 

Tossed around from place to place, 

Shrivelling in the weather. 

Maybe I was not meant to be loved right 

Or just be held when the storm arrived 

Maybe I was just not meant to be. 

Two worlds

With every word that passes through the crack of his lips, I adjust to the fact that the world is truly immense.

And while some bodies and souls roam the earth in absolute abandon, some seem to be rather content living out their little fantasies in their heads. 

But to cross all the oceans that might come between us, for I have not counted, is no fantasy of mine. 

It’s not even a dream, but more like the only thing I see. 

From the one who showed me a lighthouse, atop which I realised how simple life could be or even love for that matter, he became the lighthouse. 

I used to wander occasionally, feeling my way through the dark corners, looking for some sign of life. Oftentimes, I would find none. 

And that is where I found him - struggling to find meaning. Struggling to find a spot of peace. And in that moment I knew that this love may not last the conventionally accepted ‘lifetime’ but it would be enough for me, for my forever. 

It was indeed uncomplicated.

Two worlds collided. Two different worlds, different landscapes, and colours. And yet, those two worlds grew tendrils to hold on to each other. Found a way to make things work. Found balance in their differences. Found love in their conflicts. And found each other. For their forever. 

Would you?

Say we met tomorrow for the first time 

And you ask, "So, what's broken?" 

And I say, "Everything." 

And that I am running away from my self, really 

And this place is not for me, and yet I am here 

Like I usually do - turn up at the wrong place every single time 

And that I have dark places 

That I slip into every now and then 

And I can rarely put those thoughts into words

But they eat me up whole

But I never give up fighting. And probably never will

Would you still ask me out for that dance we haven't danced in a while? 

Say we met today for the last time 

And you ask, "What really went wrong?" 

And I say, "Nothing."

But that all I ever really wanted 

Was for us to be on the same page at the same time 

Would you still ask me out for that dance we haven't danced in a while?

The phone call

The other day I almost dialled his number.

I didn’t mean to, but my disobedient fingers couldn’t keep it to themselves.

But the phrase, ‘the strong shall prevail’, prevented those pesky digits from doing the actual dialling.

I haven’t heard his voice in six months. That’s not too long you’d say.

People don’t see or hear from their loved ones for years, and you’re complaining about a few months. 

But what do you do when you can’t sleep without the customary ‘good night babe, talk tomorrow?’

What do you do when the routine ping in the morning – which could vary from a ‘hello’ to a silly joke or even a news update – stops?

When the customised ring and text tones rust slowly rust to their death.

What do you do when 365-multiplied-into-2 days seem almost unreal?

Like they never happened. Like they were never there. 

Do you then crawl into bed and weep till your small eyes turn even smaller,

And a shade of red that you aren’t terribly excited about?

Do you delay the bath, the brushing of the teeth, and the breakfast?

Surviving only on coffee – black, sweetened with a hint of jaggery – till you really must find a biscuit. 

Do you then just download games, movies, subscribe to various online entertainment channels to binge watch what other people recommend?

Crack funny jokes on Facebook, or take innumerable photographs of food,

Simply because they look a lot better than you do right now?

Because food is the one thing that won’t make people question your sanity. 

Yes, I know the tricks -- all the tricks that I’ve learnt in the past few months.

Because now, I have much more time. A few hours extra every day in fact, 

To understand well and truly, that you aren’t coming back.

River song

It’s odd – the damage we leave behind in our wake

It’s hardly even there, practically invisible

And yet, if you reach out with that index finger

You can feel the rough scab of the the wound

That’s as extensive as a dried riverbed, forgotten

Filled with innumerable stones that no one counts

No lazy boy will sit by its side again and throw pebbles

Make ripples, or see how far they go, or how deep they sink

No paper boats, no sound of water, no floating leaves

In time, it will turn into an odd scar with so many stories

That no one will ever take the trouble to turn the pages, again.

Peace

Heart dust

People say that poetry is in the pain 

But then there are those moments 

When you're choking so hard 

And hurting so deep that even 

The darn words wouldn't weave 

People say love is meant to be easy 

But then there are those walls

That are built so high, with cracks

That leave trails through the veins 

And cause trust and faith to fail 

People say that happiness is within 

But then there are those ghosts 

That creep in, and drink from your soul 

Leaving nothing but dried memories 

Of a past that refuses to implode 

People write about love, and about 

The unusual politics of it all 

How much to give and to expect 

About the rules and the rule breakers 

And how there are no rules at all 

But what of those who've died 

From the incurable disease 

That took their heart, and And 

Snapped the core so inexorably that 

Even today they're wandering around. 

Collecting pieces.