i want to write
on every inch of your skin
i want to fill you
with half finished conversations

in the hope
that we will finish them
for the rest of our lives



come close

i miss you by moments
in the turns
of our winding corridors that are going on
i lose you by a few metres,
by one year,
across the field
on whose opposite ends
the classrooms we occupy
this field whose grass is sometimes
golden with sunlight,
this field that turns into
eight hundred kilometres
or a heartbeat,
i lose you,
sometimes only inches
from your lips.

now the rain is falling fast.
and do i dare seek a reflection
on this wet marble,
among thousands other,
of my quiet, flickering dreams?

here i have found everything
that was closest
as well as
like the time collecting,
streaming in through the windows,
weaving through the broadleaves
in a narrow muddy stream,
sometimes like the air
swirling around
the tips of the grass
of the same field
where our collective breath settles
and rises again when the sun is hot

across this field
you and i on two ends,

won’t you come close?



the first rain
doesn’t come quietly,
it is
two hundred million thundering
hearts and lungs gasping
winding into a coil
outside my window
breaking in
onto my bed
and unraveling in between trees
and concrete buildings.

much like the way
you come apart
in my hands
with this storm
raging in your eyes,
a tempest,
that will put
even earth to shame.

my love.

i don’t want to bury you, my love
i want to say—
you are my moon,
you are my star,
but my love,
you are not consolidated dust,

you are blood,
you are water,
you are nitrogen,
you are oxygen,
you are carbon,
you are despairing tears
you are the billion microorganisms on your scarred skin,
my love
you are stronger than dust
you are held together with love

you are a complex archaeology
and i want to unravel you, my love
and i promise you,
your scars hold seeds,
deep within,
flowers and leaves
and organisms,
all waiting for their life to begin.


but you disappear quietly
like a bubble in a milk bottle
like a leaf in a banyan tree

and my sadness wounds tight
around my throat
carries the only proof
of your presence


your kisses have evaporated
off of my lips

your name is a half forgotten cry
dying on my tongue

your hands have left no memory
on my skin


yet you appear


in a deep blue dream where i have forgotten how to breathe

you appear

at a street crossing when the traffic is at its peak

in the sunlight sparkling in between pine leaves

in the sound of a third footstep in the
phantom ringing calling bell in the
distant crash of concrete bricks in the
clanking of neighbour’s kitchen’s
utensils in the slight rustle of the

that picks up

the dust




and rises rises rises

and disappears completely.

Dowhill, Kurseong, West Bengal, India