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Broken bones and a bruised face, He checked the mirror- The nightmare's back again. Palms that bled and fingers without nails. An empty heart and a blank page. He feeds himself on the frozen salad- Last year's leftovers, he did not forget. He could let go of sleep Or he could sit and bleed. He chooses to embrace the red So, within the four walls, he stayed. Why stay when you can leave? But all of this has happened before, Not a curse, it's a habit, he said.

Who is she, That ugly old woman? She says she grew up Facing the vagaries of life. Oh, didn't I do the same? I would tell her Had she not been so vain. I looked at her eyes, Puffed up as if she just cried. I've spent sleepless nights crying, I could tell her, Had she been my friend. Who is she, That woman who looks nothing like me? She is dressed up in black, Mourning the death of someone akin. Haven't I mourned deaths? I have mourned them Till there were no tears left. I would let her know But she seemed tearless herself. Who is she, The lady I couldn't like? She runs her fingers Through her long grey hair And sings songs of despair. 'Who are you?' I asked her, at last. The answer I couldn't bear As I kept looking At the image in the mirror.

When he made that charming cup of tea, And when he smiled, so lovingly, You knew you were changing, Your stone cold heart was now melting, One pebble at a time. And when he touched you, gently, You just smiled. Oh, did it hurt then? When you knew he was leaving? Or, were you just embracing The moment, without grieving? His presence, His perfume, Did that make you forget About someone you left Long before he came? And when he talked about his love, Did you reminisce yours? Or is it him you thought about, And his lost love of yore? When he asked about you, You knew you were ready to tell, To tell him about all you know, And all that has bothered you, ever so. Did you tell him then that you were broken? Or did you just shed a drop of tear? Tell me, did you just smile, And pretended to be just fine? Did your heart want to cry? Did you feel like running away to hide? When he caressed your hands, You knew you wanted him to stay. You knew if he just stay...

I have seen fresh flowers decay; I have seen them rot and die. So, I know things end And I could just sulk and cry. Tears slosh within me like waves. No, don't look at me in the eye. For even if your eyes touch mine I'll just run away, hide and cry. Things will never be the same Now that you're leaving my side. Who knows if we'll meet again Or if it indeed is our last Goodbye. Goodbye.

I bite the bitter leaves Of the tree that grows in my backyard. I pick up the yellow ones, Dying and pretending to be Beautiful, Both. I hear her speak, In that familiar accent. She laughs aloud; A shrill pitch in her voice. Deep red lipstick on her lips. A little more flare in her hair. Her eyes beam as she talks. I look at myself, Then I look at her. I was more real With the leaves I hold on to. She plucks flowers From my backyard. I feel sorry Both for the flower And her. Fake, I called her once And made her cry. He called her beautiful. I looked at her again, And that made me cry.

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.

May be I finally understand now or may be I never will... She escapes a country to find herself in another. The rummage, she knows, can never be over. Perhaps one life is not enough to find one's true home. You travel to places, you seek comfort, you travel the entire world just to find a sign of it. Perhaps this world is not enough. Another world, another life or may be just another day could be it. May be now I understand why he has given up trying to chase his dreams, why he has finally given in to mere dreaming. The world is too realistic for him to be. Dreaming is comfort. He travelled the world to find his home - not the home where his family would be, but where he could sleep peacefully. He now knows his fears aren't real and so his scars. He hides behind those scars, while in another country, she wears her scars proudly and continues her rummage. She is living her dream, albeit unhappy. But he, he knows his dreams are more real than his fears. And someday, in their ...

I think of the words I would like to say Of love, of separation and your brief stay. I think of you as I walk the town On lonely evenings on the nearby lawn. You quietly follow me on a gentle morning, I turn around and you're no longer near. I write the words on a piece of paper. I write a poem; I write you a letter. You touch my hand and I cease to write, I turn around and I see you fade away. I think you're gone and I need to move on. I swallow the words, I bury it all. I tear the paper; I let you go While you stand there, mutely watching it all.

I bleed blue, I bleed it all out; A single gun-shot, And a deep wound. Like a broken ferry on a vast, vast sea; I tremble, I shiver, Drenched in the cold memories. They still know your name; They ask where are you. For I was you then- Complete, Unsullied. For they still are there In the old battlefield, Fighting another war. I've changed; I've been soiled. I've bled all hues; I've seen it all. My sore wound rots; I await no war. Sullied, Smeared, I collapse, I shiver. Broken and twisted - I am you now.

I saw the shackles That made you bleed. I wiped your tears; I, too, wept. I saw the shackles That bound you so; I saw them cut into your flesh. I didn't see- They were, but, me. My tears and my hopes, Expectations and more so. When I did remove My blindfold, I set you free, I let you go.

From a tiny crack On the lush wrist, Out, flowed A thick liquid, Crimson coloured, From the deepest Of the bluest Of veins in it. "Let us go," Said each drop That dripped on The floor, As it gave away Its hue. "Let us leave too," The liquid screamed From within. The floor Embraced Each drop that spread And so it Turned Slowly, blood-red

She stares at the blank paper Crumbled a million times, Like her own life. She stares at the glass of wine, As clear as her heart could be, Sparkling only when it should - Every time you look at it. He looks at the mess she is now, Oh, didn't he love her once, For the tears and the scars? Time plays its part As it moves on, He too moves on And she, like the paper She holds, Holds a life that needs Someone to unfold it, To wipe the wrinkles Off her pale white face. A tear-drop finds its way To her soul, bruised, He laughs and goes off While she awaits  Another tragedy...

Ever tried dreaming of those broken shards again? Nay, I dare not. Not now, now that I dwell in this forest Of that what cannot be found, Of the pieces she picked up And stubbed on each branch Of the tree I so loved. Ever found those pieces? They say they're gone now, Lost in the forest of memories. They say, love still remains; I see fire, I see destruction And a dark night of vengeance. To dream again of those shards I dare not, I dare not.

There had to be a reason why he is today the way he is. He'd either stand out in a crowd or he'd be like an invisible gush of air that passes by which no one cares to notice. But nevertheless, he'd always be alone, away in his own thoughts.  They say everyone has a story to tell yet there are stories we never get to hear. Stories of pain, of grief, of trauma. And these stories would make you wonder if they are true. And then these stories would tell you that it matters not if you do not have a good job, a good love life, or social life or a good career. Because when we talk of death, nothing else seems to make sense, nothing else seems to matter. He'd always talk of things that would seldom make sense, if at all. And what he couldn't say, he would write. He had to write. There was no other way. For the only one who'd listen to him had left him far behind. And she went not to a place where he could meet her, even if for a day. She went to an abo...