9827 Steps

9827 steps is what it takes me to be on the brink of peace, to be on the outside of this town, of my mind.
Everything changes. The wind begins here, the town now alien already. Here I stand, one tiny human, in a trail of snow and pine, of undecaying neglect and balance. Time flows differently here, untainted. There are o hurried footsteps, no urgent chatter, no deadlines to meet. Everything just...is; time slows.
With every step, I become less me and more forest, my sense of oneness fading with the distant rustle. A brook gurgles rumors of the forest beyond the valley; I listen silently, humbled by the weight of unspoken history, the passing of millenia held in the bodies of these trees. I find myself on my knees, tears running down my face, my mind free of doubt. Nothing is spoken here, but everything is answered.
I get up and walk on. I keep waiting for a pat on my back, saying it's time to go home, but none comes. I understand then, why I will always want to be alone, to be away even from the people I love. They will not understand the kind of silence I yearn for. this un-explainable quiet, this sanctity of solitude; to let go of my sense of self and become so much more. And I will never explain, I can't. I will see the image of me on my knees and it will look like a prayer.
Every step here feels sacred; I am consumed by an energy that I know isn't just mine. I feel like...like a vein through the earth, flowing through me, I walk through the snow and through the sun.
                                                                                                                        I walk for hours.

Narcisse

I have often stared at her as she strolls past the corridor, chuckling, giggling and I know she is a few heartbreaks young.She escapes to her corners and melts into poetry. She gets drunk on rum, art and anonymous solitude, puking nostalgia and undigested pasta.

I ask her, "Why are you so cold?"
She answers, "December kisses me just fine."

She too stares at me as I stroll past the corridor. I, however, do not retire to the corner. I perch myself in the heart of the room, talking, sipping caffeine by a fireplace and an untimely summer sins on my skin making me a speck of yellow against a conscience of black.

She asks, "Why are you so vibrant?"

I say, "Rainbows grave on skin."

A moon creeps into our room, our souls and together we watch the sky's children snoring, fading and aging. Our secrets vacate our bodies, merging, mingling and emerging as one.

She whispers, "I want to touch you."

She reaches out for my hand and I hesitate.

The morning comes folded in a newspaper. She learns about the world and to learn about herself, she looks into a regular mirror. 

She sees me. I see her.

I know she is a few heartbreaks young.

She knows I am a few heartbreaks old.

You and All Other Beautiful Things

One million stars in a sky without the moon,

or sunlight falling on the ground, in the forest,

after kissing each and every leaf of hundred of trees.

Yes, it's beautiful.

I see beautiful things and I think of you.

Children dancing in the rain on the terrace,

with raindrops romancing each and every flower,

roses, hibiscus and the gentle petals of begonia,

drenched in the love of long lost monsoon.

Yes, it's beautiful.

I see beautiful things and I think of you.

Crowded cafes, libraries and monuments,

places where lovers seek momentary elopement,

hiding behind people of people of people,

seeking solace in the entwining of fingers.

Yes, it's beautiful.

I see beautiful things and I think of you.

Between pens and papers and words,

and people and stories and songs, and 

colors and sadness and joys and names,

and heartbreaks,

creating a world which seems complete.

Yes, it's beautiful.

I see beautiful things and I think of you.

The constant chatter of two friends,

the smile of two lovers,

the fusion of blue and green,

thought of the caterpillars evolving,

some warm blankets on a cold morning,

few more minutes of sleep,

the smell of coffee and cookies coming from a cafe,

letters from soldiers to their families,

the laughter of a baby,

the taste of raisin,

the beauty of roses and smell of jasmine,

neat bookshelves and chaotic souls,

first touch of your lover on your skin,

the color pink, canopies, and the music before I was born,

creepers, lilac skies and poetry.

Yes, it's beautiful,

and when I come close to them, I think of you.

Drafts

Every time I tell you that I pen what I feel,

I half lie.
It is a lie because I seldom belong
to the feed I spend a part of my day on.

I dwell within the yellow pages of my old diary,
still clad in chocolate brown cover
I decorated it with, six years ago.
I take shelter inside the folded corners,
of the last pages of my notebooks;
And often, I reside among the drafts.

Sometimes, I narrate stories of people
who lived them.
Or weave poetry out of the tears they shed
on my shoulders.
Mostly, they are fragments of imagination,
and occasionally, I take a stroll along the evergreen trends.
Heartbreaks never go out of fashion, do they?

But yes,
once in a while, there amongst the rubble,
if you look closely,
you will find an obscure disarray of words
with am unclear beginning and a very vague end,
in which
I would have hidden a fragment of myself
dying a slow death.

If you ever stumble upon it,
I pray you turn the page.
You see,
on those pages I am scared of being read.

Do dead roses have fragrance?

I always wondered.

They do, they don't. Maybe

they smell of broken promises

and all the good times that are left behind,

of unacknowledged passion

of the flickering flame of dying desire.

And probably of all the love

that lies moribund in 

the darkest corner of the hearts.

Or they probably are aromatic

of unopened surprises

because of the clouding anxiety

of the threaded feathers

suppressing you of the heights;

Or of the unlimited opportunities 

that now seem to be pretty limited.

How do you perceive it?

They are dying.,

losing the grace which envies

the beauty of the starry night.

They are dying,

losing the strength and 

putting glassy hearts to shame.

They are dying

but they still symbolize love;

Love and assurance 

of being there.

They no more possess color-

bright and the velvety touch too.

But they sound like

fallen leaves in autumn,

when you step through them

making way for your

newer and better self.

These dead roses are the layers

we usually tend to wear off

and never realize.

It is the change we see in others 

It is the change they see in us.

And let's try to make it better, always

for the dead roses in the vase 

could be replaced with the new ones 

but unfortunately, or fortunately

We couldn't

SUNFLOWER

    

On good days when you are near

I bloom like a sunflower in daylight.

Faced against the direction of the sun.

Thriving with life and energy

Joy bursting within and through me.

Days when you are far are bad days

Like a sunflower leans on the ground

Withered; sickly, deprived of light,

Awaiting the next source of joy.

Just like a little girl waits for candy

To be brought right in front of her,

I am left hanging until your next text

Waiting for a fresh word from you.

To rain down on me, and bring me life

All other things come to a standstill 

Until the moment you love me again

Enough to draw close enough

For me to breathe your air

Like oxygen through two pairs of nostrils

Your weak affection, my life support.

And I await till the next moment

Where I can shine brightly, beautifully,

Filled whole with the life force of

Your imperfect, wavering love.