"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"
- William Shakepeare
We were on the top,
On the Ferris wheel.
The view was beautiful,
The breeze was perfect.
The scene begged for a kiss.
So did I. So did you.
We smiled. We nodded.
We longed. But didn't kiss.
The kiss-2
It was a boring room.
Us on a boring sofa.
Holding hands,
And we kissed.
There was no sunset,
No Ferris wheel,
No violins playing,
No fairies flying.
But I felt it all,
And so much more.
I melted into your arms,
Like butter on a frying pan.
And closed my eyes, as if it was a dream.
Perhaps it was. So surreal, so magical.
Skating frenziedly. Unable to take the heat.
Losing form, losing shape, losing my mind.
Unable to open my eyes, overwhelmed by what I felt.
Who needs to see, when you can feel all these things?
Soon there was nothing of me left,
But raw desire, boiling and bubbling,
Ascending higher and higher,
Until I came, to the eye of the storm.
How much far are you?
Feet? Miles? Light years? You're right here.
With me, in my thoughts.
STRANGER
To the sad stranger on the bus,
In the pink cotton saree,
As crisp as autumn leaves.
And the tiny black bhindhi,
On your creased forehead,
Like the moon in the sky.
I can't hear your voice,
But your plump lips move,
Like a floating feather.
Your eyes are open,
But I know you're dreaming,
In a giant sad slumber.
Your pretty eyes fluttering,
Side to side and back and forth.
Blinking. Falling. Collapsing.
As if they can't take the weight,
Of the sorrow they hold.
Strnager in the pink saree,
I'm staring at your restless eyes,
Carved with the black eyeliner,
As dark as their tragedy,
That adds to your beauty.
If you look at me,
And our eyes met,
I think you'd know,
That I'm attracted to you.
I can't write you anymore poems,
No more butterflies flying,
No more of that itch.
I can't feel any affection,
And you don't smile like before.
Let's bury our golden haired Lenore.
But I'll never forget,
Your cute hiccup-like laugh,
Which always threw me off.
And how it felt to hold your hand.
The goosebumps. And the warmth.
The first time. And all others.
Our awkward first kiss,
When I bit your lips,
And you didn't open your mouth.
And Gulmohar Marg,
Where I slowly fell for you,
And I hope you don't too.
But now I bid goodbye to our love,
With this last poem, from me to you.
I keep writing about us.
Poems, journal entries,
Pick-up lines. Because,
I want to preserve us.
Like leaves,
Pressed between pages.
Everything was special.
First love,
First kiss.
Don't wanna lose it.
Even the tiniest detail.
So I write and write.
Although the pages fill,
My thoughts of you,
Are never ending.
I want to write you,
One last poem,
Then I'll be done.
But I can't.
Lasts are hard.
Last words, Last goodbyes.
And some lasts can't be.
Like last tears, Last thoughts.
Or last poems.
You can't find our love,
In movies or in books,
Surely not in fairytales.
No, Its not perfect.
Pray, it won't be.
When I feel all those things,
But don't know what to say.
Sometimes we're too far away.
When I bite his lips when we kiss.
And he doesn't open his mouth.
Our love is not perfect.
It has bumps, it has cracks,
It has dots, it has spots,
But the patterns all add up,
Like a butterfly's wings.
The sun sets and rises,
But no new day dawns.
There is no day two.
Day one plays in a loop.
The first time we kissed.
And all the times we didn't.
I like this loop,
Where I can find you.
Time wants to help me,
But I don't want to be.
I miss you,
Like a tan x graph.
Sometimes I hate you.
Sometimes I love you.
Oscillating perpetually,
Minus infi to plus infi.
More like, tan (randomnumber(t)).
This random number,
Chosen by the Gods,
I can only beg for mercy.
If I were a graph,
I'd never want to be tan (ex).