Pens and Pages

Mist In the air, Thinning out As it travels Inside your soul. You let it out, Too soon. You don't Let it affect The words Your lungs breathe. You float For some seconds, Ephemeral. Later, You sink in, You let yourself drown. Mist In the air. Now you're one. The air outside. The air inside. You're the mist you breathe. In every breath You take It is his name. He says The air that infuses And permeates your soul. You're the mist Who lost its identity. You're the mist You breathed in.

The hopeful, loyal girl Waited as she promised She would. He has forgotten her face now. She doesn't remember anything More than his name, anyway. There were days when they both Wailed in the pain of separation. "I'll come back," he said. "I'll wait". Promises are mere words. Words were forgotten. "He is probably dead by now," She declares, Clutching the collar of her cane. They are no longer young. She doesn't remember much Of even the previous day, anyway. She chants his name As she claims her deathbed. She remembers how he used to smell. "Probably he just passed by," she sighs at the familiar smell. Traces of tears on her wrinkled face. How would he know? He has forgotten her face. She is dead now. Did it matter, anyway?

I'm far from being a romantic person. Loving? Not at all. I giggle at the wrong time. My laugh is too loud. I dance weirdly. I often find myself away from people or I find a way to push them away. But I giggle, laugh and dance anyway. And whenever I find myself alone, I sing, I think and I write. That's the closest to love that I can ever be. And when I hug the trees and kiss the sunset, when I admire the birds fly and I dance on the beach, that's the closest to romance that I can ever be. I make poems in my head. I make them all the time. I have always been in love. I'm still in love. I pour all my love to the notepad I write on. I romance the pen. The poems that are still lingering in my head, they say I'm incurably romantic. I still keep my poems. I live more in my imaginations than in reality. And if that's not love, I don't know what else is. I don't need a him or a her. I'm in love with love itself. I'm a story in another story. I'

Like a cup of warm coffee Kept on his table from long, He takes a sip from me As he kills a little piece of my heart Every time he does. He then keeps the cup away. I long for him, hurt, For just one more sip, One more kiss, One more time together. "I promise I'll forget you," I lie. He gives it a thought, Reminiscing the last kiss. Bitter. He refuses. Another chance? He reconsiders. Our lips meet yet again... And while he takes the sip gently, Taking in all of me slowly, Killing a part of me as he does, I know it is not over Because after a little while I'd ask for another chance, He'd comply. I'd call it love, Knowing very well That someday the coffee will be cold, He will move on to another Cup of warm coffee Probably not as bitter As my so-called love.

I’m 23, turning 24 after a month. I weigh 8kgs more than I should. I walk clumsily. I’m prone to colliding with objects that don’t move. I can’t cross busy roads alone. I can hardly run a few metres without stopping for breath.  And I do not know cycling. In my defense, I never got the opportunity to learn cycling nor did I have much interest in it when I was young. Now that I realize I’m 24 and I just theoretically know to drive a car and nothing else, I decided to learn to ride a bicycle. First Blocker – There are hardly any schools that would teach you cycling. Of course, I think there are none. Solution – I spent 50% of my savings (Yes, I hardly save anything) and bought a new bicycle – a blue Avon Foster bicycle (I call it my bike, no other names, I’m not 8 anymore :-P) on 29 th March 2015. Second Blocker – They laughed when I asked for training wheels. “Not available,” they said. Solution – I decided I have all the time on earth, so I can do without t

You're all words, When it is your death. For people by then Would have forgotten How to love you, again. They would remember You not, for your deeds Were forgotten too soon. You lived on the smell Of ephemeral cigarettes, On the taste of bitter beer And the whiskey that burns Your guts as it vanishes. What is it that you'll leave behind? Your beauty was forgotten When you succumbed To the wrinkles of aging. Your smile is no longer charming When you hide the gum That misses a tooth. So what is that you'll leave behind? Probably, those words, Never spoken, Only written down, On the bark of a tree To be read by strangers Who know nothing about your struggle. And when the tree dies, And the soil embraces your words, Probably it is then That your soul will rest As your words will finally leave love For the soil, That you couldn't.