Plea

Would you understand why that missing comma, that missing period will always annoy me?

Would you understand heels have always been my nightmare and how they will still continue to overrule my convictions and make me want to get the hang of them?

Would you understand that I am always going to need help with tearing open that packet irrespective of what it contains – chocolates, ice-creams, ketchup, pens, gunpowder?

Would you understand that the most vulnerable moment of mine is probably when I am holding onto that book as if for dear life, stripped naked of all veils?

Would you understand that I will always be a sucker for words, the written, the spoken, the command they have over my very self, making me forget for a moment the side I am on, making me pause involuntarily if only to admire the beauty they cloak their subject in?

Would you understand if I told you that I feel more secure when I leave my words within single quotes; that double quotes have left me squirming of late?

Would you understand that beneath all that show of being strong and probably over-confident lies a very brittle self-confidence that has survived too many a storm of doubts of its very existence?

Would you understand that past all the fancy words and imageries is just a yearning to be held, petted, looked in the eye defiantly and convey all there is to be said in pristine silence?

Would you understand that it is not love that I seek, not even companionship, for they all bore me at some point or the other, but the presence of your being that keeps fooling me into believing that life will somehow seem complete in the truest sense?

Would you understand the lonely streaks that I am bound to get into, the free falls, the maddening jumps, the solo trips, the skinny dips and that ache to wander furthermore?

Would you understand that I have tried and still this won’t stop, won’t just let me be?

Would you pause, even if just for a moment, to just acknowledge that none of this is easy and it is a full-fledged battle, against the senses, against time, against the conscious, against my entire self every single time?

Would you, please?

Lost conflict

His silence angers me. 

And when they come by, 

his words drive me mad. 

No more poems for him, 

no more outbursts. 

Irritation simmers. 

This close to being tipped off, 

I notice he hasn't learned yet 

how to bite away a nail properly. 

I look up. 

Eyes braving to fake innocence. 

I look down. 

Footwear in colours 

I wouldn't dare mention together. 

He is a fool. 

I sigh. 

Just as he is effortlessly making his way in..

'You know, when I write, it..' 

'.. yeah, yeah, blahblah.'

I won't write for him. 

Promise.

Caught

Why can I still feel the cold
Of the monsoon breeze

Rush through the tussles of my hair

Even as I smell the fresh parchment

Of earth presumptuously waiting

Beneath the ominous sky?

Why do I remember
That culprit of a raindrop
That left that tiny tea stain
On the corner of your t-shirt
On that forgotten rainy day that
Bid us to halt there
For shelter and warmth?

Why did the sub-conscious
Willfully leave an audible spot
To store your scent
That it so craftily learned
To tag along with
A whiff of cigarette smoke?

Why does the stray finger
Always voluntarily trace its path
Down the spine
Of you in my eye, in the air,
Pausing, savouring,
Engulfed, enthralled?

Why does the anger refuse point-blank
To simmer down
Even as I piece and string painfully
One careless word against another,
One puckering punctuation away from another,
Cautiously spacing them away,
Lest they suffocate each other
With their brimming intensity?

Why, despite all these battles within
To arrive at a final say,
To write that final word
And be done,
And no more,
And redeem,
And stabilize,
My blunt pencil drags me,
Grudgingly, one inch at a time, closer,
To your smell, your touch,
Your taste, your breathlessness – caught in mine,
Swirling, tossing, looping, engulfing,
Satiating, throbbing, wanting
And pleading,
For more,
So much more?

Just please tell me this,
If this is not love, then, 

- Why?

Trance

Much after the lights have been turned off, my eyes hover over the familiar contours of your body. The light from the distant streetlamp seeps through the gaps of the curtains, softly gracing the outlines of your face. Your right leg is sprawled all over me, the right hand comfortably resting on the curve of my slightly disoriented hip, cradling me close enough to trace the many desires of my heart masterfully sketched all across your face.

I observe how involuntarily my body attempts to sync itself to the rhythm and pattern of your breathing. My lips part about quarter of an inch with the faintest of a pop sound, trying to inhale whatever of you hung about in the air. The ultimate test comes in willing myself to not move, freeze, building that strong electricity around, feeding every passing cruel second.

My left hand moves as though on its own, one lone, scared finger inching its rebellious way towards your face, ready to break the trance and get quenched any moment.

In one swift, artistic movement, your right arm shoots into the air and rests my outstretched hand, gently pulling me into you by my waist. The kiss is barely a whiff of air, almost magically brushing past my lips. 'Sleep,' you murmur. On the rise and fall of the tune your body carelessly strummed, my imagination had found its home.