over the telephone

perhaps

i should tell you

what i have meant to

perhaps

i should trust

two thousand miles of curled wires

between us

perhaps, it’s time

how do i begin:

your breath is quiet,

my erratic heartbeat,

the sound of static,

and then the dull tone

of the dead phone.

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end of a love

so here we sit
staring into
the
setting sun

you and i
wounded
from our invisible war

here’s the rain
now to wash away

you and i
the waste of our world.

blank pages
flutter
over crunching leaves
by
sharpened pencils

no more tender exchanges.

31st December

Another year ends, look back—the past tense,

sitting under a quiet evening sky,

remembering fag ends of happy days and sad,

the colours of Holi now a little brown

with heartbreak, new friends, love lost, luck found,

a long scorching summer followed by thundering rain,

the hypnotic boom of dhak, our ten-armed visitant,

faraway places, the scent of the universe in open skies,

feeling the pulse of the mountains in its streams,

long walks and longer daydreams,

a few hurried birthdays, a cousin’s wedding,

lots of reading,

Christmas in a pagan house, homemade wine

and a fruitcake wanting zest.

my earphones blaring music at midnight and movies

all spun into one fabric,

smelling of old newsprint in a damp building

rolled into empty joints and set to fire,

a false high with people, some of who truly care.

 

When tonight spills in through my window, popping into distant sparks

I’ll say my goodbye and wish parts of you don’t come by, again.

 

23:59 December 31st.

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