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Always.

If only people understood
that one can love more
than one with tributaries
running in parallel, without
feeding off each other, that
the vectors of my love don’t
intertwine and dissect, rather
time and space does, and
thus, my mind and body,
but love is not in the encompassing
attention that I can dispose to
one at one space-time coordinate
but the overarching rib-cage
of feeling that melts into one
candle wick whose wax never
wears off – rekindled each time
with words, voices and presence
for the vortex in the centre of
my chest relives the warm
liquid nervousness, and my
body remembers your touch.
There is an eternality to love,
if we let ourselves share it with more
not in the coffin of singular expression
but in the in-between of presence,
that I will always share with you.

Stammer.

hi,
my name is
t- t- t- never
mind, swallow
the hesitation
clenching the p- p-
paper. deep breath.
tightly a little red
ball of n- n- n-
nervousness hangs
– mouth contorts but
no sound, breath caught –
i- i- i- i-
in my chest, i wonder
what they’re th- th- th-
fuck.
hide your face with the paper
fuck. you don’t do that. smile
warily, smile as if this is
n- n- n-
normal.
sounds are an enigma
and sometimes, i want
to s- s- say things, it’s the knowing,
the words just won’t
FUCKING COME OUT.
I know what I have to say
It’s just that they
won’t c-

c-

c- c-

come out proper
with a broken mouth and
hapless short breaths of
h- h-
helplessness, I
PUSH AND PUSH
AND IT ONLY GETS WORSE,
and then suddenly
a stream of smooth sentences
as if language were fluid and I
a boat with no friction gliding
gracefully over the words, as if
I were a m- m- m-
fuck.
master.
if only for a short while.

Darling.

If this,
were enough to
make you stop
a moment
steal your gaze
and still your eye,
resuscitate a soft
twinge that you
haven’t felt
in a while –
to hold you
in a spell, even
if it doesn’t remain,
or still your fleeting
thoughts a moment
and hold you close
again – if it were
enough to say,
that there are things
I cannot say
but you can hear them
all the same,
in simple words
and warmth,
in a hand held
for a second more
and left to lose its
way, a touch to
ignite the fire –
perhaps,
you’ll
keep the flame.

Love Song.

The wail of a love song –
I recognize,
I do not pretend to understand
The shifting verse of fluid feeling
The slender twigs oft broken, the
Always that never was.

Yet, in intuition there is
That deep sense of understanding
A moment that holds, in its bosom
Only to lose it again –
The tight clasp, sand pushing out
Grip trembling, eroding slowly
Through the seams of my skin
I pretend to hold, glistening sand
Losing myself in the love I let go.

Tipping the hourglass, voluntarily
Empty now, my chest
For another hand to softly
Tip the hourglass again.

Missing You

Infrared curtain rooms and laser beams

Pink laptop the blue spectacles tastefully decorate

The bed, slightly crushed, and a blanket

Rather crumpled but soft with a strand of hair

Poised perfectly twisted against the wave

Tracing a path from pillow to hand to touch

Circles and skin caricatures almost tattooing

Love, into your fingers and mine,

Intertwined.

Missing you,

Exaggerated spill-over the boat that

Carefully buds and blooms, with time

My love, in time we shall meet and depart

Again to find each in the other’s comforting arms

On that same coppice bed where we found

Each other, so much closer, come closer…

Your taste marks my soul,

And I will bleed a little, everyday

Till we meet again.

September

Flakes of gold

Wither and fall from gnarled trees,

The autumn is catching

The summer recedes

Quietly,

To hibernate

To collapse into lush silence,

Cloud lines floating

Silver sun hiding

Shadows

Longing to touch the earth

Cold quilt,

To keep you awake at night.

I keep a leaf

In my book

For you,

I hold it close to me

Its scent tingling

Expanding inside me,

Dry leaves

Crumbling in my fist

So many

Blown away by the wind

So many

But you I keep

I hold you close to me.

Wasted Youth

The glistening street light eyes, casting a shadow
At the corner of the street, where a man lies reeking
Of a bitter pill sloshing his waking life, leaving him
Embittered, stretching to agony his tired face, riddled
With two months of dirt, now unconscious, almostĀ 
Peaceful, with a faint smile revealed through the grime
Revealing a content illusion.

If only he were to wake in that, than this dream in which
He slept, huddled in rags with mind boggled with bitter-
Sweet nectar that forgets, then remembers depression,
With the handcuffs of misery and misfortune binding
A pleasant simulation to the debris, what remains of
A life, that he once wished to fulfill, now can’t remember
If he lives or dreams, or is dead.