Learning.

Lately, my hands smell nothing like roses or lily. It’s more of a summer love, yellow tint that stretches across them. I was told to observe them, keenly: how they reciprocated to smiles, touch and words. They say it becomes lucid enough to judge someone. Should we choose lovers by virtue of their hands? And…

Diversions I possess.

I can take to woe, whirling into the childhood cove, a plate filled with doughnuts- never to sulk with food. I never rest in peace but poetry being stolidly jittery, conjuring images of purple sundown bliss- too fragile to get lost in. And I implore to offer one simple canonic evening. I’m rid of periwinkle…

Dear You.

12 February’17 00:40 Dear You, I am a better artist now, you know. Ten times better than what I used to be. I can describe stuffs that you once made me feel, write that day down eloquently when we survived on red wine on the beach discussing The smiths and the likes. I can put…

00:05 am, Sunday, 26th February’17.

I hate people who look at you with a melancholic feeling in their heart, witness the tear your eyes hold, the smeared smile and with a quiet whisper of ‘take care’ visibly grow smaller and smaller at the end of the airport. Without acknowledging the goodbye because they know it’ll tear them apart and way…