So, this happened yesterday. And realizations have been hounding me ever since.


Evidence Lacking Instances

There are birds on the chandeliers over my head
Sunlight lingering on artfully arranged parapets
Faintly comforting clink and clatter in a background now all-too familiar
The beating wings now a thing of reality and not a shard of poetic fiction
Reflections on mirroring panes and the strangers on the other side
Even the persistent flies irritating my coffee are a thing worth mentioning
Crumbs and crumpled paper napkins the only evidence of a hunger extinguished
But there is no proof I can provide to prove
That the wandering ghost has been chased away
Actualized into a moment of nonfiction and pure clarity

Triangulating a Destination

One will cross oceans
One will overcome mountains
And I’ll travel a few hundred miles
All backpacking with a hope
That our unplanned plans aren’t soiled
By a fate that beguiles a fast approaching
And somewhat-uncertain time

One will haul dust in the pores
That have breathed in more stench and teargas than clean air
The dust of a nation rife with turmoil
Of a culture both buried and restructured
By the wrong hands for self-serving intentions
A land so beautiful it’s too proud to grant redemption
To the ones tearing it down

One will uproot the forests and barriers
Lying in the shadows of the Himalayas
Sweat-soaked from the clouds that wait in line to pour
He boasts and groans of his state being the “wettest place on earth”
A few dozen inappropriate jokes come along the statement
The fountain of wisdom will show up crammed
With more facts on mythos than any Google search could ever drum up

And I, I’ll try to pack the humid air of my land
In the frizziness of my jam-packed mane of ideas
The riverine sand and stacks of doodles featuring us 3
Images we’re together in but not quite and not yet
A destination we’re triangulating towards
A meet I’ll blister my feet for, and if need be;
I’ll hitchhike with spicy food to wherever my two stars are

And we’re tragicomic triangles as we call ourselves
The mountain-forest spirit, the equilateral of all things equal
The ocean-crosser, we impose on him the title of balance, isosceles
And I, scalene, the unconventional weirdo
We edge our corners, whetting them for the nearing strikes of wits and humour
The destination we seek is not a place but a moment in our lives

The moment of an image, really, truly… Shared together.


She was a sun-kissed catastrophe
Sauntering about abandoned roads
Heels smothered into sharp confinement
Her drunken mirth echoing off the aging leaves

She spun spinning the world with her
A ringlet of foliage burning and blurring
Meshing the heat of desire with an emerald lust
And the world blended into her formless mould

The watchful gaze of a swirling sun
Braided her existence into a dusty vertigo
This was no one’s land and she was no one’s woman
She belonged to the sun’s fire and the earth’s bed of grass

Stumbling through russet groves of hazel limbs
A sanguine vista splaying the last of its fierce affections
Under the emerging stars she collapses by a winding creek
As nightfall struggled to numb the warmth blanketing her sleep