Long Distance

The tomes (yours & mine!) in my bookshelf
with their spines to me-
I rearrange, in wild fantasy,
sometimes in mad embrace-
other times,
lover's tiff maybe!

What I Did Today

Every morning, I sit religiously to write to you, about you. The wooden table is hard and rough. It has a few books that I read these days - some detective, fantasy and erotic novels, a haphazard desultory collection. You would not have heard of them, another sign of my decay. Blank sheets of paper held together by a red paper clip, the one I bought in a souvenier store, when you weren't there with me. I write with a narrow pen that leaks ink. There is a small window that looks out to the open sea. Today the sea looks like a pale woman's nipple. The sky looks a lifeless blue bordering on white, as if it cannot be bothered to gather more hue on a day like this. The sun scorches and seeps into my skin, while the ceiling fan drones, a never-ending circular noise, the only sound that reminds me of life. There is no desire left in me, except to write. I wake up every morning with this single purpose in mind. I eat two meals a day, some bread and soup. After dinner at night, I walk for an hour by the sea. There is not a soul in the beach and the dark waters (except on a full moon day) call me to them. During these hours, sometimes, I think of us, how silly we were, how we held hands like little children. They don't seem real to me now. I must be growing old. But before I forget what it is, I need to write. And yet, how easy it is to say this! When I begin writing there is not a word that wants to stay on paper. My resolutions disappear and I stare at these blank sheets. You encircle and outshine every word of mine. What a torture, I would have thought, had I known earlier how elusive you are. How inadequate and how futile! It is evening now and through the window, I see the sun in all its glory.

Eliot's

The waves hear and know every sound that reaches them, from the shore and across. They know you by your first kiss, from the uncertain sounds of spontaneity, your arms entwined around that lover's neck, and the ring tone of your mobile phone that cut through. They hear the sound of your startle and your feet crashing the sand, your hurried landing onto reality. Sometimes they borrow glitter from the moon and as they move silkily towards you, they hear your ragged breath, your chase, your hurried step back as they hurtle near, the futile slap of one feet over the other to remove the wet stinging sand that they caressed you with. If you stand still, unafraid, they carve you a pedestal. They know your voice, and the language of your laughter. They know the stories you never tell anyone. They collect the thoughts you throw with every pebble, mimicking your mind-ripples. Yes, the sea sends her ears to the shore to listen to you.

HonkyTonk

On highways, lorries swing their wide hips - they usually carry sand or bulging sacks, the ones with oil/water are silent. Clinking noises aside, the horns play tunes on repeat, pattern music, joyful whistles. Within city limits, here in Bombay, they whimper, often times howl tragic impatience, much like how I feel, unwelcomed and intrusive.

Rhetoric

What happens when the faces and places that define our lives, go up in smoke?

Unrequitted, still.

A night of
piano and stardrops -
a near tear
peeking involuntary
reminds me of the other,
when satin danced
to our rhythm,
wafts and notes,
and i was drunk
on you.

Now, never to be...