loving someone is often abandoning the possibility of alternate universes. strange leaps of faith across possibilties, twisting strands of choices intricate, fragile webs. it is not called falling because it is easy. to stand at a precipice, rocks crumbling under your feet, and instead of taking a step back on steady, solid ground, you…

the city blinks drowsily, and between the soft hours of witching hour and early sun, bleary eyes close in exhaustion, as the city sleeps. streets slowly relax, no longer under the constant footfall of purposeful lives. the lights dim. glowing moonrays highlighting skyscrapers with sharp edges. just a few hours…

perfect conversations are the ones that move like choreographed dances, two voices stepping in tandem. the ease of knowing someone’s sentence patterns, thought patterns, yet devoid of the crushing boredom of predictability. well-rehearsed dances that have a touch of on-stage improv. comfortable, teasing banter flowing from one phrase to another, eyes twinkling…

is it possible to make art devoid of strong feelings? dispassionately treat it as an expression of skill, rather than that of emotion. puppet arms moving, puppet eyes glazed over. there is a subtle difference between art and exhibition. exhibition lends itself to other people’s opinions, craving external validation. the sound of thunderous applause, a chorus of murmured compliments. but art is self-contained. the people seeing it are white noise, all the better for a night of peaceful sleep.

every few months, i am transported. it’s excruciating, sapping every last breath. memories flood my mind, the texture of her skin, the timbre of her voice. every few months, i call her number. a desperate attempt at reconciling fact with feeling. waiting for the operator’s tone, void of inflection, to tell me. so i can feel familiar rage in the tight clamp of my jaw. every few months, i forget what i should know.

the strangest places can become home. waving red flags fade to soothing rose. once ringing alarm bells become musical. a derelict wall looks charmingly rustic. perception changes everything. and you think, maybe i can stay here. maybe i can fix this. a hundred nails carve warnings into your skin, little bruises and…

there is no pain as bittersweet as that of an ending. a book coming to a close. steeling myself to let go of characters that have wormed their way into my heart. knowing that in this universe, i can never feel these words for the first time again. as the…

the thing about writing poetry, is that it is addictive. now, i do not know how else to deal with my trauma. apart from trying to put it away in words, somehow, whatever the cost. but on days where thinking drains the lifeblood from my veins and squeezes tears from burning eyes, i am…

somedays i feel otherworldly. when i look around at flesh and blood people, with hot rage and burning hope, flawed minds, highs and lows. going through life searching for something indeterminable. i swear i am made of poems. every action i take is another step towards my next writing frenzy, where everything blurs…