my lost memoirs of you..

You know,
you are a fragrant description
of my tired eyes,
that you without fail,
succeed always,
in not being the person you are
while you sniff the air for assumptions,
fish the newspaper from beneath the carpet,
and sit quietly, unperturbed in the pillion seat,
singing by my ears.

no,
you are an entirely different someone when you write.
a bleeding truth,
a frozen rage,
some sweetly versed protests,
some ephemeral metaphors,
and longing
under a gallimaufry of names.
you are unheard of
in a tiny room in the back of your mind
with mirrors for walls.
oblivious,
intoxicated,
sorcerer,

a spinning dervish who
just touched me
and away he went
or perhaps
left a poetry tangled in my robe.

for now its you..

I like it when you try to fit in my tiny space,
when both of us know you NEED not..
That many once when you look out for yourself in a jumble of faces.
Even in the midst of The Mad Hatter, Willy Wonka and Long John Silver.
Or when you want to be my first ever crush,
even when you were nowhere around.
Being needed is somehow necessary for me to function as a person,
and yes,
that indeed defines me as 'self-obsessed'.
But hasn't life been comfortable that way.?
I DO like a few strands of my mane stuck to your (omnipresent) hoodie..
Like the mandarin moustache on your face that I drew,
Even the sight of your wallet nestled safely in my daybag (smug, for obvious reasons)
I like the fact that we have no GPS collars on each other and yet can tell a loo from the waiting room.
I like everything that I despised earlier.
Even my shattered rose tinted-glasses,
well atleast
for now I shall NOT be lost..