As noon approaches, the tireless
hands of my wall clock freeze and I
think I have all the time in the world
to fancy a time without you.
Frescoes opposite to the clock
drip in hues of plans made
then unmade.
Sometimes, I zone out…
But, here I lay awake.
These needle-like hands
cease to quiver. “Happily married”
is inscribed on the dial.
And outside, just nearly
outside, I hear the smashed cups
tattle about their slippery fate.

Last time the time froze, I could
smell the taste of your skin
burning in heaven fire.
I can only hear…

A Gambit Afloat

There are instances
when the idea of living
or dying seems blandly
Maybe this is what being
stuck in a Limbo feels like.
Not dark enough,
Not depressing enough;
Not joyous or engrossing enough.
Just a routinely, unswerving
Monotony—from which stems the
half-hearted will to break out of
a room. A room having not a
single orifice:
Where the purpose is to leave
And the motive is to stay.
Both win.

Your Feather

In a crimson building of
flawless mosaics, shrouding
inside an embroidered
pillowcase: You claim that
I have morphed into a
light feather? One of
those great horned
owl feathers reeking
of wisdom. I wonder if all the
feathers are like that;
trapped in regal pillowcases,
squished underneath
your head.


in the fuzzy clutter of cars
with signals and roaring engines
standing still
a little girl
with corn in her hands
now walks past
the half-rolled windows
like a backdrop
Like a norm.