In this and in every other language
Neither here nor fully there
And yet, somehow, everywhere
Subtle and bold
Never doing as it’s told
Young and old
Sometimes warm, sometimes cold
Love is what love does
Love does what love is
And binds us all together
Burnt fingers and some bitter coffee
Three wick candles and a dog-eared glossy
A warm smile and an attitude that’s also a little saucy
Are my favourite wrappings for a cold, winter morning
I no longer press flowers between diary pages
Marking important events
To be forgotten for years at end only to fall apart as dust
No, I display dried flowers in vases all around my house
Quite proudly
Wilted and shriveled yet capable of beauty
They no longer need to be locked away
Into secret corners of my memories
And when these flowers start to disintegrate
I turn them into pot pourri instead
Spreading their fragrance anew
It’s ironical
Isn’t it
How identical
We are
For I love to crush on you
Even as you crush me
Dear Diary,
It’s been getting bleaker everyday – and I don’t speak just of the weather. There’s a sense of dread, of impending doom, overtaking my mind. I could care less for sunny days but would welcome some sunshine to filter in today. The grey skies aren’t unfriendly, but the harsh winds don’t seem to welcome me.
I got a new plant today though – after forcing myself out of bed. I remembered to water it. I placed it in the balcony to sunbathe after transferring it to a ceramic pot.
I think things will look up now – as each new leaf unfurls.
Ushering in soft breezes
With the rustling of drying leaves
October ends
With the promise of rebirth
Heralding the reign of nights
Over shorter, greyer days
November begins
With a foggy breath
The bane of my existence and the sum total of every burning desire. The curse of my sins and the purging of my soul. The depth of my being and the echo of my heart. The best of all seasons and the worst time of the day. The innocent laughter of a child and the intentional deceit of fallible men. The turning of tables and that of the tide. The glistening of morning dew and the shattering of the sea. Living in every moment only to die every night.
What is love, you ask?
On the last day of my life, I wish to rise early and smell the morning air. To go for a walk amongst beautifully coloured flowers under a perfect, powder blue sky. I’d probably have milkshake for breakfast or pancakes or oats. Cannot pin it down yet, but something sweet for sure. I’d call up my best friend and ask her to come over. I’d discuss a recently read book with her over a glass of red wine. Or two. Both, the book and the wine. I’d spend the afternoon with my family – laughing, squabbling and laughing again. I’d enjoy the evening with the love of my life. Slow dancing to fine music that we remembered by heart. I’d go to bed content but before that, I’d write a poem in my notebook. Sigh!
But. Yes, there’s always a but. But since I don’t know which day would be my last – one can never really know for sure. I’d like to live like this each day. Is that too much to ask for?
A noob and a joke
A cup of coffee and you’re broke
Say feminism to seem woke
But get rid of the patriarchal yoke
Then live with pride till you croak
And a few real tears you might evoke
With time
Stories change
And details die
With time
Minds wither
And tongues lie
With time
Distances increase
And rifts deepen
With time
It is only true love that endures
Of self, of life, of one another
Of hope, of joy and of keeping it together
Moonlighting Scrivener 