lessons in wanderlust

Someday, just like one of these,
I'd simply
numb and quiet,
walk out of this shell.
A story engulfing me shall be shed, then a cast of dead skin if nothing else.

I moult through words, phrases, punctuations and names. In a constant flux of transition between what was once me to what is unknown.

I live in a fickle sense of reality,
the present being nothing more than a metaphor.
Like evolution, crawling out of ideas is what we call the essence of survival.

The way, a poet gathers the sand in his fist and lets it , again to seep into a distant reality.
A sand-dune to another.
One formless form to another.

The arrow of time piercing the thick vivid canvas of the metaphysical like everything else.
Like everything else,
my abstraction walking with me towards the needed disorder.
The way we all shall,
expanding hot masses of nebula destined to be a white dwarf.
Yes, somewhere in our lifetime, our brilliance shall stretch out to the horizon before fading, and leave behind a warmth.
A warmth of words, phrases, punctuations and yes,
names.

We all evolve.

‎*two dreams, verbatim*

That there,
that is a hoax.

don’t leave, 
don’t rise
stay
and breathe.

maybe. 

disintegrate.

******

you,
you are forbidden,
you are beautiful.

I self destruct.
I am invincible
and yet

helpless.

******

let’s drown the silences,
savor the quiet

Let them watch,
let
us
melt.

I made a scabbard of light.

Of late..
I’m more of pictures than words,
more of fiction than truth,
more of a folklore than memoir,
I’m my voice custom fitted into yours.

I know you from the old days,
when they’d just started sewing notes into symphonies,
and we shared the secret of the secret cult of musical notes..
I doubt you remember though,
it was way before the memories could be bottled nay?

Of late I’m no longer in your vicinity,
we do not share the same oblivion,

You sip dirty martinis,
I chase disentangled musical notes to the cellar,
(psst! The others, they write compositions)

I’m quite in the process,

Don’t rush me as of yet,
I’ll strip down word by word
only if you wait.

Patience.
(shhh!! The others might hear)

I might own a Persian grimalkin sometime in the future,
or a burgundy red Beetle,
or a seven-language thesaurus
or all of them together.

of late let my giggles just resonate in your ears,
while I take my daily tram to abyss and back.

Behold.
clasp your eyes shut and disappear!
that is how it is done.
yes , the others do it wrong!!

we shall hold hands till the end of tunnel
and then we disappear,
we’ll take it slow,

one step at a time

We’ll meet again.

yes we shall,
you of the dark-rimmed-intense-eyes,

And me,
of  chewed fingernails.

some other end of the tunnel sepia landscape
( the broken notes,
and the slurred songs?)

For now,
I'm just a fact robbed of all the lores,
and the staccato notes of a heady hilltop breeze
don't even make sense anymore.

There was a time once,
when my palms used to leave distinct impressions
callosities and creases alike,
merged into one,
form defying,
and defining the formless. 

not anymore..

Silences trickle down my mane where the turbulence of a forest fire once screamed.

Sweaty, determined metaphors which fail howsoever to create any noise.

I failed to create a me, the one you fell for.
And failed miserably.

I'm just a skeptical fact 
rhinestones and rubies,
but no smoke.

I implore you to see,
and shut your eyes thereafter.

As if I'm an apparition,
a trick of lights that you see.

Behold my naked silences and give them a name and identity if you could.

But not life.

No, for if they were alive
they'd run away from me again.

for all that is to you

Let me be
that one unfinished story that you'd never let go,
haunting your dreams
and reigning your silences.
That troublesome malingerer of sleep that visits under a shroud of thought blur.
...
Let me be those tiny cobwebs on the corners that you somehow always leave.

Let me be,
just an answer,
for all the questions hanging in the sultry night.

For now,
just don't find perfections to abandon me on my own.

Let me be
flawed,
weak,
never to recited out in the open.

An elaborate shame,
a consistent bother,
like the summer evenings that make you want to push away the dawn a little farther.

Some countless little rainbows on the arch of your back,
those tiny little beads of sweat,
that exist without much a commotion.
Let me be,
a comfortable inconvenience.
A caustic oxymoron.
Your favourite one-liner.
Your best pick-up lines.
Your layers and surfaces.
Everything that is not liable to disappear.

Let me be.

a well scripted sub-conscious

I am for this moment,

perhaps
not even a person.

... Just a pair of eyes,
seeing the seen,
or just a voice
whispering inside your head.

You,
yes your head.

It is me that you hear,
a dull stony non-syllable,
that was never not your own.

Never the silent hum of the ceiling fan,
or the million buzzing droplets stinging your face in the shower.

An ephemeral blank,
in the richer shades of blue,
a few drops me,
a few dollops you.

The glorious sloth,
of a thousand and one years,
is
on the brink of snapping off.
Some tense wires resonating music time and again.

A forced self-love,
and a sweaty ecstatic climax later.

why are you still awake?
While you can still call out my name,
or yours.
Have my wrists bound,
and your eyes shut tight.

Search for me,
while you are still alive.

P.s- tranquillizer twilight..

the absurdity that is US

Its been a year.
The concept of rains has changed from Darjeeling tea to semi-ground Columbian coffee beans.
Although grave hours of contemplation still require chewing paper.
The world is still a crumpled orb of discarded poetries, and elaborate love letters written the wrong way.
Its actually a huge transition from chewing the edge of your paper cups to tissue wiping rich plum lipsticks.
... We travel backward more often these days and my feet have these tiny bunions from standing on my toes time and again.
The rainbow has of late travelled one whole arch,
and is probably waiting to reach the other end.
You have more creases traversing that mole on your palm,
and I am yet to get that wisdom tooth removed.

We keep some old muffled giggles as a leftover,
like silly little hangnails,
that you keep nibbling on to kill time.
Its been a year, and we're still frozen in time,
calling out to the hushed planets of each other's names.