the wind is teething
soon, bite marks will cover skin
winter is coming

Private Concert

Six strings

of a guitar

and your voice, low and deep-

a philharmonic orchestra

for me.

nose against cold glass
joys on display, locked inside-
a window shopper.

Love Story

Someday I will write our love story. The one that never happened. 


I will write about the letters we never wrote to each other, and the cards we never sent. About the songs you never sang for me, and the dress I never wore for you. I will write about all the times we didn't dance under the moonlight, and the times we didn't hold hands at the movies.
I will translate all your silences into the words you never whispered, and put a tune to the sonnets I never wrote. 


I will write about the day we didn't kiss in the rain, and the night we didn't spend, just talking.


Someday I will construct you and me- with ink and syllables, and flights of fancy, on vast sheets of blank paper. And I will stitch our stories together, with my needle and thread, and my craft. 


Someday I will finally write our love story. The one in which we don't hate each other. 

The Proposal

They always went to open-air restaurants.

She was allergic to cigarette smoke. And he was, well, a chain smoker.


His clothes always stink of cigarettes and…ugh, his teeth are starting to yellow. She frowned at him from across the table.


He was quite oblivious to her scrutiny.


I will never marry a chimney. She wrinkled her nose in annoyance as the fumes passively touched her face.


‘Give me your hand,’ he said, grinning, and wove a delicate smoke ring around her ring finger.


‘Will you marry me?’


She stared at him for a second before deciding.


‘Yes!’ she replied, ecstatic. 

old stuff- a medley

stray thoughts in three lines
of seventeen syllables
sanity intact


---


sugar, cinnamon 
in a sea of milk and rice- 
your words are dessert


---


snowflakes in my hair
pink blossoms under my feet
winter still lingers


---


spirals of pasta
missing carbonara sauce
my life without you

The haiku moment is no less than a tiny flash of that ultimate reality which in fact is just what is under our noses.
—Ken Jones

“Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.”

—	J.R.R. Tolkien

The Birthday Post

This day, the year before last-

I didn't expect any presents, so I decided to give myself one. I got my eyebrows done.

Hey, I spent £8. That's an expensive gift.

I bought a cake from the supermarket, thinking I would cut it quietly in my room, singing a miserable 'Happy Birthday....to me'.

I wore a white linen dress, and got wet in the rain. It was beautiful.

I partied on Skype. Eight-people conferences are fun. Especially when they don't get along too well...

My new flatmates made biriyani for me. And sneaked in candles for my cake, risking the abominable fire alarm.

This day, last year-

I found a new friend. Only to lose him after a few months. It was carelessness.

A lizard fell from the ceiling and landed on my bed. A few inches from where I was sitting with my laptop. I temporarily lost the use of my voice, and narrowly escaped a minor cardiac arrest.

I locked myself in my room and cried. Out of boredom.

Today, this year-

I wrote a birthday post after years, renewing an old tradition. About all the things I didn't want to talk about.

Oh hello, twenty-four.

Nice to see you. Not.

Oh good old Blogger. How nice to see you again.

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore.

-- Neil Gaiman