Full stops as Hurricanes.

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Fashion me,
and this crisis.

the guy in front
spills coffee on his shirt
and he sighs in frustration,
I laugh
blushing in acknowledgment.

we sit side by side
in the parlor
2 hours and we leave
he sighs off again
his hair an ugly mess.

we have sat down for coffee again
but my lips desire something completely else

signing off
he holds my hand again
like in the bookstore
in an empty aisle.

he left about 4 days back
and probably thought that I died
but I am alive. Very much.
Only wondering if he too was just
another reflection of a man.
I saw, six years back.
Hatred, the same.
In both their eyes.
Pitch black, their stone cold hearts.

Artwork by Manjit Thapp.

Queer.

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In the last maiden
season of spring
mother told me that the jasmine wouldn’t bloom
that year and they didn’t.

For father had died
the day before
and the flowers knew how to cry.

So why do they bloom now
when the lover has taken rest
and that one bite on my neck has vanished away
in the air around us.

only mother knows

she who sits on the porch
knitting sweaters and mumbling sounds
to the flowers.
‘Queer’.

Prince over princesses.

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My heart leaves out no space
For captured princesses
And those fairy tales
Where the prince must marry
A beautiful maiden pretty as the moon.

My heart is rustic, too bold to appear,
But somewhere in the closet;
It is also sincere
And it is love that my heart also knows

Except in a man.

In italicized words, my heart is gay,
So is my body,
And my lover, of no name.
Who is too shy to appear.