torn pages and dry ink.

Fragments #2

What do blank white papers mean to a girl in a dream who walks down rows of bookshelves, feeling the spine of every volume, examining the obscure copy tucked away in a corner and who looks up suddenly to watch the overpowering beauty of the silver moon in a wet monsoon sky?

What does a dried up pen mean to a silent poet who follows beauty and passion and love in their vague, forbidden paths with a toolkit of words and who occasionally looks up to share a piece of the silverware surrounded by weak, twinkling stars?

Do they care for a meaning at all? 

The Imperfect Perfection

She wrote a poem
on the perfection of the imperfect.

He wrote an essay
on the imperfection of the perfect.

On the shelves of the local bookstore
they sat facing each other,
perfectly imperfect.

On your departure

Oh, yes! 
definitely,
you can leave anytime you wish to -
the doors will always be open.

but do not turn back once you step out
for you will find all the doors closed,
and maybe even the windows
because I hate strangers peering into me.

do not try to knock
because I would have stopped listening to you
and do not try and pay a visit later
because I would have more guests, and you will not be needed.

yet
if,
and only if,
you chose to stay
you will find the warmest heart beating for you,
the softest beds for you to rest,
the strongest hand to hold you safe,
and the surest shoulders for you to cry upon.

i see that your mind is set,
then not let me waste my breath
let us say goodbye
and bid farewell forever.

[This poem has been published in the Issue 8 of Poetandgeek.com.]

Past presents the future.

I have a history of heartbreaks.

Among the pieces of broken hearts I store
some are sharp, some blunt;
some faded and some shine;
some are yours and some mine.

They bleed, but never whine. 

Leave Me

Leave me an address.
I will write a letter on an old parchment
saying things I want to tell you as each day progress
telling you how much I love you,
how much I miss you 
and what we could do when we meet again.

I'll write a letter,
seal it with sweet incense 
and stash it away. 

Leave me a number.
I'll think of all the things I need to tell you,
I'll note them down as they occur,
all the songs I should hum into your ears
on the long monsoon nights.

I'll pick up the phone 
think of all the sweet things
and will slowly drift off to the land of dreams. 

Leave me a kiss.
I'll muse on the intricacies of your lips on mine
your dreams in mine 
your hands in mine
the fingers entwined
as the sun streamed on to the weary white of your old poster-bed. 

I'll redraw those lips in my mind
with the perfection of the picasso we talked about
and the days will go by.

And the time will fly
and you'll forget me
and me? 
And what will happen to me?

Meant to be

Fragments #1

You say this was never meant to be? You say we were never meant to be? Then.. then just tell me what is meant to be? 

Nothing. Nothing at all, she said faintly. I think, she added as an after thought. So soft, that those words could as well have never been spoken.

Be Weak

Don't be so strong always,
Always keeping your head among the lofty peaks,
Holding back those well-meaning tears,
And forming a perfect smile.
That smile, formed in the smithy of an unspoken heartbreak,
Crushes them those who love you
Whom your finest masquerades won't fool
For they hide within you.

So, be weak.

Choose a shoulder to cry upon,
To open up
And to sacrifice
For one love will be replaced by the other
And your heart,
Lighter,
Will rejoice in the new found spring and forget the harsh winters.

So, be weak.

Hide those smiles for once
And wear your heart on your sleeves.
Let the predators circle the sky
But your love will find its way to love.

Be weak and thus be strong.
And love.