In memory of a friend: activist, writer, queer icon lost to Cancer.

How do you mourn for him?

Who stayed only for a while-
but what was forever;

Who carried a unadulterated smile
and throbbing, piercing pain;

Whose insides the chemo burnt;
but none of his spirit.

Who would want to conquer all:
but little time in his hands.

Who would herald the colors of pride
even when the cancerous inferno raged inside.

“Moon is my lover” , he’d say-
strumming on his uke.

How do you mourn -
the one who loved the moon
and whom the moon loved back?

I need to let you go
believe me, I do know,
but just a little bit longer
Let your memories linger.

In your stories of yonder
Let me sway asunder.
Like on those phone calls
of past – summers, falls.

For one more time
in your breath sublime
let me be drunken
all my senses sunk in.

Into one last embrace
without refrain or grace
take me; like dying ember
watch me dismember.

A poem about changing cities during a pandemic

How to build a home
alone in this unhomely city?

Where winter cloaks the sun
and rancid coal air chokes and burns ;

where dust gathers over clothes and skin.
and death still possess the winds;

where phantoms veiling hands and faces-
scurries past hiding from doom.

I wish it came easy to me-
the way you could love:
unbridled and unpretentious.

I wish it came easy to me-
the way you weaved magic
with words and your sweet nothings.

I wish it came easy to me-
the way you walked away;
Not an explanation or second thought.

I wish it came easy to me-
to move on, to forget
everything that was us.

A poem about anxiety

The world slips into a blue haze-
unbound, unruly, unknown.

Legos of thoughts strewn around -
hapless, ruthless- biting the feet.

The frost seeps through the skin
the hands frozen and still.

The moon -a distant memory-
veiled by many a canopy.

I know it's okay
to not to be okay.
But, for once,
let me be okay.

I know I'll survive
the cold night:
When harsh waves
toss over grimy sands.

But, for once,
let me thrive
in sunlit meadows
honey-scented breeze.

I know I'll get over you;
like I've done with
others before.

But, for once,
just once,
let me get through:
To you.

Start writing and you’ll know

Start spilling some more shall follow.

Why train thoughts to follow a line:

Rather trace them bloom on a vine.

Think but do not be bogged by thinking

Let your thoughts go around sprinting-

Chase your thoughts through the hollows of your mind

Galivanting in the darkness, let your voice unwind;

For you’ll find rhythm, even if you lose sense

Like scattered dew drops, on winter leaves condense.

A quite park
An empty shed
A dusty bench

Two broken souls
A stolen kiss

Two racing hearts
Few missed beats
A stream of sweat

And a flick of tongue
A salty neck

Two fusing bodies
Two tangling tongues
Few winding fingers

A tacit regret
Of time lost

A quite park
An empty shed
A dusty bench

I am thinking of ending things
and the art that it is.

It turns and twists
and morphs and molds
into thoughts and universes:
of a drive through a snowstorm
of a dinner through a lifetime
through a marriage-
through a dream-
through a reality.

I am thinking of ending things and
the limbo it throws you into-
questions unanswered
realities blurred
magic descended.

I am thinking of ending things:
the lies I tell myself
of reunions with love lost
of dreams unfulfilled
and (just like in the film)
of a hundred continuums
that I build in my head.

I wonder
if one of these days
the spring shall arrive

the ice shall thaw
and walls crumble;
Would you call out to me
like you once used to?

When in the rains

the moss shall cover
the terrace floor -
And the forlorn crow nest again
On the tired old neem tree,
Would you rest your head
on my neck again?

When on sleepness nights
the moon — eerie red-
finds you and I
on separate beds,
Would you get me to wrap around you
Like a winter’s blanket?

Autumnal Flurries

Seasonal Temporal Transitional

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