Liff

I heard
his heart
beat my name
but
with
a
wrong spelling.

Lonely shores

I don't know how many of you have had a poem written to you. Or for you. Or even about you.

Frankly, I never thought I'd be at the receiving end of one. Its just way too big a gift and I'm the one usually doing the giving. Acceptance has always been difficult.

So when he sent me one... the emotions weren’t exactly in this order, but still...

There was amazement, shock, bewilderment, overwhelm and then...Hmmm... an infinite sense of loss followed by a finite sense of gain.



Do you remember the times

Lonely, we spent there?

The rocks cushioning

Our wearsome frames

The waves kissing our feet, bare

Yours, ankleted;

Listening to stories and songs

The waves whispered

Into ears strained.

We listened, we laughed

We made the sea a comrade

Spilling our secrets into

The departing waves

Stories to be carried away

To other awaiting shores

And a little guilt washed away.


Now, I sit here alone

And the waves,

They seem hesitant, wary;

A guilty messenger- almost.

Unfetched letters for an eager recipient.

Empty-handed, they approach

To listen, carry away, wash away

A little sorrow.

P.S: The anklets are now silent. The bells have fallen off.
And you aren't there anyway.

The heart is a lonely hunter

It was the year of long skirts. When more cloth overrode comfort. Stiff white long petticoats under longer colorful skirts; petticoats that rubbed raw against your legs. Petticoats that saved you from your two sticky legs being seen as silhouettes. Marilyn Monroe disagreed. So did I. I don’t know what Monroe's mom had to say to her, but I sure heard a lot from mine.

And that’s how I was dressed to go for the concert. I loved music. But I loved disobedience and rebellion better. So I was seen protesting, sulking and agreeing- all for something even I wanted.

We had good seats. They became the best seats when I saw you. I guess it was my lucky day, when I was asked to sit beside you. You smiled me a smile. A smile that was all mine. I pretended to adjust the creases of my skirt.
All that it takes to transform a girl into a woman is a smile.

I always held it against my parents that they weren't better friends with yours. Our mothers talked in friendly politeness so characteristic of acquaintances who would never be friends.

When the curtain rose and the hush murmurs drowned themselves out, I stole a look at you. And then ever so often I'd look at you, casually so.

The music must've been good.

When the curtain fell again, you turned and looked at me. Complete attention that I didn't know where to tuck away.

You asked me about school. About friends. About what I was then reading. I never asked you anything back and that was only because there was so much I wanted to know.

Mother on coming back to her seat gave me a not very happy look, seeing how unabashedly happy I was. When my smile fell as her frown tugged it down, you noticed it.

Just as the curtain rose and the lights dimmed, you took my hand and whispered 'Lets go out'.

I knew for sure I had to go back home with mother. And maybe that we'll never meet again in the same romance. You might fade. I will fade.

We brush aside several looks of disproval and step on many polished and unpolished toes.

Those were the years of scooters. Bikes were a luxury. Stolid blue scooters parked in military fashion.

You sit on one and pat me the empty seat beside you. I take it.

We don’t talk. The music sounds better from where we now stand. I turn to look at you ever so lightly. You catch that one.

I go back to just the music.

And again when I look at you, you turn to me.
We both smile.

When the next time it happens, I am flustered. No woman who is woman enough lets her love be seen. I was but a girl. And you were but my first love and mistake.

You smile and point out to the shadow we make on the wall.
Of a boy who sits on a scooter.
Of a girl with her head slightly turned… looking at the boy beside her.

The shadows just don’t show me blush.

Coffee.com Series

S and I met. Again.

Coffee.com is our attempt at writing, abstraction and honesty.

Disclaimers come usually in the end. But then we decided, we are but usually unusual.
I'm not a mother. But if I was one, I'd still read it. And I'd wish my daughter would too.



Residues

The smell of burnt out lamps.

Almost dry semen left unwiped complete.

Your sunscreen on my lips.

Your smile left incomplete.

An edited story.

Chai leaves on drunk glasses
Lipstick printed.

Cigarette butts in almost empty whiskey glasses.

Locked windows, bolts thrown in
Open doors...

"Thank you, last night was great"
I've had better.
And I want more.

After the end

Quite frankly
I don't know how to love.
Not just you
Or maybe just you.

So
I take the oft repeated paths

I send you flowers
You don't understand them.

I cook your favorite meal
You never tell me how bad it is.

I watch while you sleep
You don't look any very good.

I call you when I don't want to talk
You never pick the calls.

I hate it when I lie.
You love it when I do.

I tell you I love you.
You believe me.
I don’t.

So
Hmmm....

Love
is a blanket
too small
to share.

Love
is a dead end.
Any further
The journey is in circles.

Love
is two measures
Unrequited
And the longing.

Love
is
overrated anyway.