Imagine.

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Can you see?
How
The rain imitates you.
Forces me to hold my breath
and anticipate this touch.

I am akin to
wild things
like rain on a hot summer day.

I can stand in the balcony for hours
Let the rain wet my hair
and slide down slowly
through my loosely hanging shirt.

Like your hands tracing their way
on my skin.
Rain feels familiar today.
As if I could collect you. All of you
in my palm.

Look above.
Even the clouds are jealous.

 

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Ivory tears.

 

Do not shed tears here
in my garden.
Even
these flowers have known
better lovers
than I.

At least the sun is a keen visitor.
Present almost every day
Like a regular customer
at a kind brothel
and these flowers,
the sun’s favorites.

Come embrace me one night
And show me everything that you want to do to me.
And maybe I could too indulge in the
sexual conversations
on hot summer days.

For how long
do I have to be jealous
of my own flowers?

 

This is after reading a lot from the poetry collection of Allen Ginsberg. Where the most of it emerges from his strong desires for sexual intercourse with other men. These above pictures of him and Peter Orlovsky, are strange in the same way love is. Where not all of it comes at once. But slowly. In midnight thoughts. Of your lover entering you, slowly, and of all the pleasure it gave you. You wake up and Blush. Because what else can you do. Who are you going to tell this to anyway?

Seasons.

Winter was harsh last year. The kind that makes your lips turn white and forget what your lover tastes like.
 
I have come to accept you leaving, as changing seasons. And today, on the first day of summer all my plants have bloomed again. But that does not mean I have forgotten last winter.
 
That does not mean I have forgotten writing to you, and then hiding them back somewhere in old notebooks. It’s summer now, but every time I find anything I wrote to you, it all flashes back.
The same nostalgia that I try and avoid every day. In plaid shirts, and when I occasionally win a game on quizup, (only you were much better at quizzes). And especially on days when a mutual friend shares my poetry and I know you must have come across it too. I can only imagine what you would think.
 
It’s funny because it’s like having Alzheimer’s in reverse. It’s funny, because it’s summer now, but I know I’m not allowed to forget about last winter.

Have you noticed the way the wind blows?

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Have you noticed
how soft does the wind blow today
as if it was sad from an old friend’s death
or just lazy
after a late Sunday nap.
 
How It makes me forget
even days when your voice was strong enough
to cut through human skin
There is kindness to it and I can touch it
In yellow leaves
falling on the first day of
spring.
 
And whatever it’s motifs might be
It fulfills all of mine.
And isn’t that what humans are about.

/i do not know what to call this/

rravenous

It is hard to remove
shrapnel from your skin
once they bury down as deep
as entire languages
in my home.

Sometimes I can hear my grandmother reciting
prayers in the other
room, her voice has faith
that I will turn out to be like my dad
insisting on fidelity.

She exhales a deep breath
And there is a short wait
Before words come back to me
I try, ‘Maybe we could change some of this.’
But there is no space for revolution,
where her words reside.

There are only veils I speak through.
Muffled voices
My words get stuck in between
My tongue and teeth.
It is difficult to remember the words today
And difficult to stay

In places
That give you such little room.
To be just a little
Queer.

Not yet

I could have swore that you had brown eyes and not black, but who am I say any of these things. Last night, when you entered me and my body relaxed itself, you knew immediately what that meant. And that’s probably all.

But it has already been a long pressing day. And at its peak it was 42 degrees in the afternoon, right when I had left home. The wind was stronger than usual because of which my students at the slum came only an hour after I had arrived. And that irritated me. I was angry so I left early. And luckily caught a volvo fast, for the long ride ahead.

It would approximately take me another hour and a half before I would reach home.

I need a shower. A long shower to take everything off my mind. And the fact that no one would be home for the next two days is a relief.

Maybe I could skip tomorrow’s work. Taking a day off would surely not be a big deal.

It was the first time I had ever kissed a guy yesterday. So thinking of everything that happened last night was certainly not the easiest thing for me to process.

“Certain landscapes demand fidelity,” wrote Agha Shahid Ali. He was a master of poetry that resonated with his past and that of the places he had lived in. I wish he were still alive. And whether he had ever loved Delhi more than Kashmir. And somewhere in my heart, I knew he would say yes. And it would snow so much that night in Kashmir that every house would know the stories of betrayal.

Some lady is shouting on the top of her voice from somewhere in the front of the bus. It seems that her husband(i presume) just got pick pocketed. And of course there is no one to catch. She shouts at the driver first and then at the conductor. I am not sure if she understands all of this at all.

And I, I have decided to just sit and watch this from my seat somewhere in the back. I swear I have never thought of someone so much as I have of you. You have taken up residence in my own intimate memories and something about this feels so right and wrong at the same time.

Smog covered skies and windows shut, the city is capable of poetry only twice a day.
First in the night when the wind is strong and the moon watches over you and your lover. Now holding hands, the stars are capable of promising kisses even in public spaces.
And in the first half hour after dawn, when there are vendors selling jasmine garlands and the sun bearing witness to the eyes that wake up early. Contrary to afternoons, this half hour is when the plants are the greenest and your hickies visible, dark red.

Afternoons aren’t capable of poetry or of lovers kissing in open spaces. Delhi isn’t capable of lilac skies or of the color pink with cherry blossom flowers. Pink here is your shorts and that t-shirt you just saw but left because it was too girlish. Soft pastel shades of pink and blue, and white and yellow. Balloons in the sky, Beyonce’s album, pride parades. Delhi isn’t capable of the color pink, but you are.

I am smiling but I swear I could cry any moment.

My phone rings in the middle of all this, it’s you on the other line. And I remember asking you to call me around this time, knowing I would be done with my work for the day. But right now, I just don’t know what to say.

“Heyyy, Apoorv.”

“Heya. Work ended early today. I am already on my way back home.”

“That’s great. Any plans for the night.”

“None really. It seems that no one is going to be home tonight. Family is leaving for a visit to Rajasthan. Why don’t you come over.”

“Sure.”

We talk some more and I ask you what you want to eat for dinner because I know you haven’t had lunch.

You promise to come before 8 and not leave unless I’m fine. But I fear I’ll never be. This middle part is the hardest. Coming to accept you, means forgetting so much. And I am not ready for that.

Not yet.