Colloquy (#2)


“One. Two. Three. Four. Six.”

“Five. You forgot five.”

“Deliberately, I wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

“I always pay attention to what you say.”

“What’s my favourite song, then?”

“Trick question. You don’t have a favourite. You’re in love with those monkey men, that’s all.”

“They’re my favourite band, stop calling them monkey men.”

“For as long as you are with me, no.”

“Not long, sweetheart.”

“Don’t make promises you know you can’t keep.”

“I will kill myself, I know it.”

“No you won’t. You’re a coward.”

“I fell in love with you, that was brave enough of me.”

“Bad decision, kid.”

“Aw, baby. Will you break my heart?”

“Haven’t I already?”

Colloquy (#1)


“Why do you bite your nails so much?”

“I don’t know. Do I?”

“You’re nibbling on them as you say this, are you even real?”

“I don’t know. Am I?”

“I should have been the one stoned right now, you’re high even when sober, weed only gives you an excuse to be annoying.”

“Right now would be a good time to shut up and kiss me.”

“I’m gonna pass.”

“Oh come on, I know you like the taste of my lips.”

“Yeah, the sugary aftertaste of smoking too many Marlboro Cloves. You’re a fucking chimney, you do realise that, don’t you?”

“Honey, smoke is beautiful. Reminds me of you.”

“Because it’s beautiful?”

“Because it vanishes without a trace.”

To you. 


with your pocket knife i will

cut open the underbelly of

this sky that swallowed


i will untangle your nerves

from around the armrest 

of your father’s chair


i will smooth out the creases

on your age-old blue blanket

as it covers your body

at night (or day).

as you watch these dreams

that play on repeat

and try to cry

and fail,

i will slowly flip pages

of a childhood photo-album;

you messily trying to stand upright

in your father’s shirt like a sundress

and your mother’s giggles like a prize.

some nights like these when you

refuse to sleep, i will

read you the stories that you’ve written.

a reminder of all the monsters you’ve made, 

but more so of

the monsters you’ve killed.
this might not be love,

not yet,

not ever.
but i will,

i promise.

Ugly love


Departure lounges taste like sweat and stale vomit reaching the back of my mouth,
Like a slow reminder of waking up in your arms (too tight) around my waist (too big) to fit into the dress that has been hanging in my cupboard for (too long) to consider it wearable anymore.

I stare at the dirt trapped between your eyelashes and the ingrown hair of your beard south of the pimple that is almost ready to be popped.

“I love you”, you say
It sounds like
“I am going to come home late don’t fucking ask me why.”
“I love you”, you say
It sounds like
“Let go of my hand your palms are too sweaty.”
“I love you”, you say
It sounds like
“Your obsession with pancakes is stupid.”
“I love you”, I say
You say it sounds like silence.

I fit white lines of a powdery substance in your phalanges and inhale sharply.
Reminiscing the day when beaches meant ocean waves and not sand stuck in the bends of our bodies,
Slow love not haphazard clattering of bones against more bones,
And kissing you was like scaling mountains without falling, without rocks cutting at the soles of our bare feet.

I can not find lillies to wear in my hair (that I haven’t washed for over a week) testing your patience hoping I don’t live to see the day you refuse to run your fingers through them.

“Goodbye”, I say.
It sounds like
“Why can’t you for once start the conversation.”
“Goodbye”, I say.
It sounds like
“Enough with shaving in the sink, stop clogging the drains.”
“Goodbye”, I say.
It sounds like
“I’ll call you later when you have the time.”
“Goodbye”, you say.
I say it sounds like silence.

Take a break from clawing at my skin
And I’ll send my insecurites on vacation.
Trying to prove;
That i love you.
That you love me.

Say i cut off a finger, and placed it in a flower bouquet.
On this canvas of your chest, paint rainbows in grey.
Watch you smile, watch you wither,
Let this night turn to day.
Twist your forearm as we kiss (and teeth clash)
Till you slowly slip away.

Duerma bien.


“I etched a face of a stopwatch
On the back of a raindrop”

A room devoid of furniture, except for a cassette player mounted on a wooden stool. I lie here, exhausted after a long, uneventful day. She sits across the room, facing me, having smoked half of her cigarette. She loves this song, she said she always wanted to kiss me to this song. I wait for her to remember her promise, till then, I look at her simmering in her beauty. Aware of the magic she makes, aware of the forts that have turned to ruins without the influence of her presence.

“I heard an unhappy ending
It sort of sounds like you leaving”

She takes in a long drag, fills her lungs up with lethal smoke, exhaling softly these clouds of nonchalance infused with a throaty laugh. A cigarette dangling from the valley between her index and middle finger, her hair pulled away haphazardly from her face with an overused hair-tie, just one rebellious strand touching the nape of her neck, right where I imagine placing my lips, only to inhale the redolence of sweet alyssum from behind her ear.

“You look like you’ve been for breakfast
At the Heartbreak Hotel”

She notices me looking at her intently; like a predator, waiting ever-so-patiently for the right moment to pounce upon its prey, ripping it apart, devouring it bit by bit, first skin, then flesh, then soul. She adjust her T-shirt so that it covers her bare body down to the mid of her thighs, and draws an inhale that lasts a little more than two seconds, must be thinking of something I wish I knew about. Holding conversations with her is a chore because I never know what to say in reply to her colourful stretches of silence; I have grown to accept these wisps of smoke that escape her sanguine lips as answers to all the untitled poems I’ve written to her.

“If you’re gonna try and walk on water
Make sure you wear your comfortable shoes”

I want to displace myself, a little, just to relieve my right arm from the burden of my entire upper body. I decide against it, her presence is staggering enough to encompass the energy of this room in her watered-down eyes. I let her do the moving, the breathing, the laughing. She cherishes the last pull from her cigarette, and slowly sweeps herself up; and as she stands, the most beautiful miracle of anatomy that my exasperated eyes have ever lain on, a poisonous fog outlines her face. She emerges from within it and walks towards me, looking like an angel, moments away from taking me by the hand and stepping into heaven.

“I heard the news that you’re planning
To shoot me out of a cannon”

Her face is inches away from mine, I want to kiss her, but I remain still lest it pulls her out of her self-induced trance. I wait as she counts her breath on my lips, as she inhales and exhales and stops to smile. I want to kiss her, but not yet, not before she is fatigued by this playful ritual of moving her lips against mine, close enough to touch but not caress. I feel her hand on my chest, grazing along my skin to find a heartbeat. She treads upwards, her soft palms just about to touch my throat. She hesitates for a moment, but eventually reaches her destination. She is patient, calm, benign, she doesn’t want to cause me any discomfort. She laughs again- her beautiful, aromatic laughter- simultaneously dipping two of her fingers into the gash on my neck and then fiddling with the knife that lay beside my body. The same fingers that held her cigarette. My blood is still wet on her hands. She finally kisses me, passionate and firm, almost as if asking me to come back to life.

“Your waitress was miserable
And so was your food”

She gets up from above my carcass, wipes her bloody hands against my sleeve and turns up the volume on the cassette player. Singing to herself, she pulls on a plaid skirt and untidily tucks her T-shirt into it as she fiddles around for another cigarette. She finds it. She lights it. She inhales, sighs, exhales. I want to kiss her again, but I know I cannot. I try to remember how her first kiss felt like. It felt like cough syrup on a feverish tongue; and her last, like resurrection after my untimely demise. She steps out of the door, her smile tells me that she will never cross the threshold to enter into my house of grief again. I watch her leave, I think she whispers something. I hope she said she loved me. I love her. The only farewell I needed was this, the one she had so lovingly bestowed upon me. The song stops playing.

“Oh, piledriver.”

Bright blue train


A train, you know, bright blue, not very new,

But the brightest shade of blue you can mix up in your palette.
Rusty brake shoes, screeching tyres,
But moving. Always.

More often than not,
Greeted by empty platforms,
Or angry faces
“Could you for once be a little ahead of time”,
Bright blue train,
Empty platforms.

Half-heartedly, abruptly,
“Make it happen so quick so i don’t feel it at all”,
But halting, always,
Right place, right time.

It’s not nice
Being at empty platforms.

It’s not nice
Being empty.

It’s not nice



I wrote this poem in April, 2015. Two years later, I finally put it out for you all.

I like talking about literature
And mythology
And you.
So, one unfateful night
As i was doing all three
My friend told me how he thought
Sisyphus was happy.
And i asked what made him say that.
He said he knew me too well
He knew how falling out of love
Was never my thing to do
And how Sisyphus rolled up the stone
Only to let it fall again
I promised to not ruin myself
Over people
But ended up doing just that
He said it never weakened me
He said all this futile labour
Of breaking
And mending
And breaking
And mending
Was now a part of me.

And he said
For someone so broken
And still so capable of loving others
In a way that their clouds of insecurity vanish
I was happier than most people

And so maybe
Sisyphus was happy too.