The lover disappears in loving. Then there's only love, not the lover or loved.

Map out my contours,
can you define me?
I'm crimson, starlight,
tears and dusty skies.
Clad in clay maybe,
perhaps, uncertainly.

Every time he cried,
the heart of night splintered
into starlight,
kissing his tear stained face.

It's the dreamers who will save the world, but the dreamers are dying.

Even then you had worn
the mask of night and danced,
high up on that precipice,
and the declining sun would set
beautifully, just for you.

പ്രതീക്ഷിക്കാതെ പെയ്ത ഹേമന്തത്തിൽ പ്രണയത്തിന്റെ അവസാനത്തെ കണവും ഉറഞ്ഞു പോയി

with fire in your eyes
and a carve of wind in your words,
you hear spirits call back and forth
between falling leaves
and all that they burn.

in the afterburn of free will
my broken faces
melt their wings
staring at gold
one feather at a time..

time,you are a wicked mistress.

behind a shade drawn down,
the moon guides my soul into every journey
I am masked with surviving
I am what love used to do when mirrors cried.

I've fallen in love with my 'self' that loves you aesthetically and unconditionally.

my solace is rebellion
crawling faster than light,
pulling back my stain,
skinning night,
lingering somewhere
near the dark edge of never found..

knowing you were here
was enough
for me, for us
then
you took the shears
and cut me out
smeared my poems
across the finish line.

mining the pain to write
writing the memory to forget
as the river of words flow
with the tears that wrote them.

lend me your blue,
so I may hold up half your sky; twilight

a little piece of you
in every word i write.

There is no dancing
even to the music of the seasons,
with a paralyzed Spirit.

You put your hand on the answer
and the question dissolves.

Memories of you cling
like leaves to the wet pavement. Beautiful, persistent..
Until the tears dry
and they are surrendered
to the wind.

Memories of you cling
like leaves to the wet pavement. Beautiful, persistent..
Until the tears dry
and they are surrendered
to the wind.

I made a prism out of smiles and called it poise.

Autumn stands still in the morning trees
in its mind the warning:
all things die.
in its heart the reassurance:
all things are born again.

you walk
into my cage
as if
I just imagined
these bars.

counting time
in breaths
for that touch
scrawled across my mind
leaving me, unwritten.

another wooden bench, where I leave the world behind. Tibetan monks stroll languidly through this walkway.
McLeod Ganj.

Look at my blood flowers

because I write
with a serene sharp blade
that soothes
as much as cuts into the deepest parts of my soul.

with fire in your eyes
and a carve of wind in your words
you hear
spirits call back and forth
between falling leaves
and all
that they burn.

an angel day
spoken spray rakes
what cancers cause a soul's inward turn,
even the longest of
nights cannot consume the
entirety of my shadows.

You're the smell of ink on the pages of an old book.

Mainlining you
eye dropping
every word.

Two big beautiful poems,
your eyes.

Thoughts that drowned in a cup of chilled coffee

It's been quite a while since I wrote a piece of essay as the words of my ilk no longer fit in but into poems.
Although a terrible headache has been trying to freeze those moments on my every attempt to articulate it, I'm panting and struggling to relive the mesmeric time I had over a cup of chilled coffee today. I wish I could rewind and re-write the full story, giving it a try anyway.

Against my hopeless hope and faded dream, she walked in breaking my random musings.
I was shaken a bit but held on to the weirdest philosophy of life: " I pretend. I pretend that I've moved on. I pretend that I'm happy, I'm strong. I put a smile on my face, a drink in my hand, and move along."

Along with the twilight-like unreal rays that slid across the glass door, she came in, with those oceanic eyes wide open.
My first instinct was to say hello to her eyes psychoanalytically but gave up the idea after realizing their charisma that I can't even gaze in more than few microseconds.
Without listening to the metal music that my heart has started playing louder, I began to act reality, because Sometimes the heart needs to rest before its ready to love again. For her it was just me, but to me, it was her and my endless thoughts.

Words can be twisted, not the feelings put into those words. Let me be confident and certain about my scribbling. Taking in a long, deep breath... Yes this is it.
Why are Shakespearean couplets and Arabic poems making unusual appearance in my head ?
Ah let me forget everything and write without any flaw.

Is this getting lengthy and more casually? Who cares.

She was sitting there, right across the table. But the secluded me was still in the island parted by strange waves of seven seas.
Why am I returning to poetry when I'm supposed to be writing prose here?

I was brought up to not speak unless spoken to, that's probably why I just talk to myself a lot. But I must write, too.

Ah let me gather more of memories and continue writing about my chilled love in the coffee, or whatever it has to be. Is this becoming funny in the word sequence? Apparently this isn't meant to be a humorous post.

Okay heart, enough of your overflowing emotions and stupid thoughts. Let me write something rational. By the way what's the point of rationalising things here??

Hello headache, I told you, you can come and have sex with my head as long as you want, but allow me to write now, this note has to have an uneasy end. So see you later.

Uff, what was Ezra Pound's words about irreparable love?? Thanks to the memorising mechanism, I've got my poetry bowl in my head empty as well.

Irreparable love this is. Brutally ripped off by myself.
Who can fix it?
Why fix ??
I won't trust my instincts anymore.

And it's raining here, for the record. Rain has to be parallel to romance, is it?? No. I've cried in rain, like they say in songs and love quotes. I literally did.

What was the first thought that crossed my mind when I saw her? Yeah, just to steal her away the world and make her still & look deeper into the stars in her eyes. But what if she would stop me ??

The icecubes have started melting. So are the chocolate crisps in the wrapper.  My heart now beats to her blinking eyes. She destroys my each thought with each blink. Her beautiful fingers carelessly wrapped around the glass. Cold, beautiful fingers!
Is my heart becoming jaded? Shut up brain! Too much stupid questions huh ?!

Why ranting at brain? I had all the answers until I met her. Now what, just questions and absolute nothingness.

She often asked me if I was scared of those eyes. I'm not. But yes I am scared of the way they make me feel.

Some thoughts can make anyone a connoisseur of love. Everybody has their version of thoughts; secret, lame, outspoken, overrated,  utopian or suppressed thoughts yet energetic enough to make the soul live upto what it desired for. Everybody can have a panoramic view of such thoughts in a mind that's attained peace. But peace always comes in a possibly little shade of happiness.

Hello brain, are you pretending to be a Romeo here? Like, what's the problem?? Let's call it a day. Let me write up what's left in you. This is growing up to be a boring article.

It's almost 2am. Am I in the other timezone ? She must be deep asleep, diving into the wonderful ocean of dreams. Of course, she has beautiful inner eyes too.
Why am I perpetually yearning for her thoughts ? Why do I even exist ??
I think emotionally handicapped should be a recognized disability.

Her untamed velvety hand is still around the glass. She's sipping in, I can see through her, her transparent throat. Her engulfing eyes are moving like fishes in the bowl. 

What am I here, right in front of her ? The soul that unstoppably loving her or her casual mate ? I'll pretend to be normal. But every time I pretend to be someone I'm not, I die a little.
Shut up basit, let the soul speak to hers.

Her eyes again!
The only difference now is that her eyes glitter lot more than what I could describe. It make a musical sequence in me, like hundred gazals have been sung together  deep within.
This is, as I was afraid, going to be an incomplete note. Everything has been incomplete, then why this is not?!
Incompleteness, I don't know if there is such a word, but hardly matters here, Incompleteness is a soothing experience. Without being able to meet the other and living in virtual fantasies. But, it's surreal too. One must learn to see it's charm, from pain, from incurable wounds of love and from reading the beloved's eyes.

Obviously, There is no escape from the silent screams of our own mind.

Coincidentally, Mehdi Hassan singing in his soulful silky voice :
"ab ke
bichde to shayad
kabhi khwabon mein milain
jis tarah sookhay huey phool
kitaabon mein milain"
Now that we get seperated this time,
then maybe we will meet in the dreams someday,
Just like we find the dried flowers
between pages inside books.