From the trees
I gather a handful of plums.
Today, you stare and point towards
the ripest bunch.
There is tart from last Friday.
You feast on it a little and then on
the sun I still have left to

On other midnights
when the light runs out
I sit down, stealing
from the stars.

and they let me.

Artwork by @xuanlocxuan




Standing in the last aisle at the store, I am tempted to pick some chocolates and maybe even a drink. I forgot to bring my groceries list with me and now I’m unsure about the kind of cereal my mother likes and if i am already on last roll of toilet paper.
This is new to me. Like flying for the first time, I am still reading the pamphlet that flights have on every seat with instructions on how to fasten the belt and sit upright.
I know you’d disapprove of me getting the ready made cold coffee at the store but I get it anyway. If you could see me now, you’d turn, look at me in my eyes, and probably in jest, laugh.
There are two people behind me in the line. A fairly old woman playing with her grandchild, and another man, with frisky curly hair, and glasses bigger than his head. He is unaware of the long line, and I am tempted to ask him to turn the music down.
But I realize that I’ve been staring too long, and that’s probably not okay.
I am forgetting you on my own pace. Presently, here, at the door of the supermarket, wondering if the man behind me could replace you. And if it would make any difference at all.
On other similar days, with time, I unlearn, sometimes while plucking flowers, orchids of roses, I dare to smell you in them again.




Can you see?
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.



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.

/there are so many things we could do/


There are days
when we would go out
to the seashore behind
your first home,
as hazardous the road might be.
“Watch your step,” you would whisper
telling me where the bushes were sharp
and I would move my skinny body
lean against one of those large rocks
and stare for hours
at you, at the clear water running.
In the sea
shadowing everything inside it.
Like small fish and the rocks, that the sea
every time it hits the shore.

It feels nice
to witness you every day
to stare at you like this
like the sea and the sand
changing, moving, shifting.

The sun touches my face gently,
like when you are desperate
teasing me, flirting. Kissing my face.
Look towards the sky
and see
the moon is jealous.

/there are so many things we could do/


Manjit Thapp 2.png

I can categorically list the number of times you have been misused, unheard and trivialized. And as much as I might write about you, you are not a metaphorical representation of the moon or the sun, and my pen doesn’t help. You are real flesh and bones, and the real you craves for coffee on Sunday summer mornings and likes sitting alone sometimes. You too crave for sex, with people whom you have just met and you also forgot my birthday once. You are not perfect, of course, you are not perfect, but you are not a gross indecency either. You are truly and finally someone I can love and my love demands to be written down on the most beautiful sheets of paper I own. My love demands to be handwritten on postcards that I have collected over the years for this moment and sent over the distances. But you see my love is also a little selfish and narcissistic, and since we are not in a brilliant and beautiful relationship, you are just another story I can tell myself before going to bed. One of those stories that demand to be told again and again.

Artwork by Manjit Thapp.