I'm looking for the love song

I'm looking for the love song.
Have you found it yet?



Not the comfortable lies
You tell yourself everyday.

Not the imaginary ballads
You sing to yourself, every goodnight.

Not the word games
You weave your make-believe world in, over and over again.

Not the apparent mirages
You draw on the sands of time, one more time.



I'm looking for the love song.
Have you found it yet?



The cramped up spaces
You hide within, everyday.

The monochrome tales
You bury deep down those intriguing kohled eyes, every morning.

The actual confessions
You choke in the lump of your throat, every goodnight.

The erstwhile habits
You flush down the cheeks, every time it rains.



I'm looking for the love song.
Have you found it yet?

In the search of a love story

Black coffee. Crumpled paper.

The inexpensive ink, spilt.

Broken mirror. Grey spaces.



In the search of a love story...

The usual love story

He. She. Wordplay.
Twenty six letters. Infinite possibilities.

A forever thing?


The love for mirages...

She was my bride

She was my bride

Three day old...




All that had been left unsaid
I carry them to the grave...

The morning coffee, the held hands
The trembling lips, the first kiss...



The rusted roses would know them all...



She was my bride

Three day old...

The Portrait of a Lady

The unkempt curls. A sudden storm.
The eyes, a tad incomplete.
Crumbs of a smile, withered lipstick from last night.
The last life of a half-burnt cigarette.


I could never pen you in the pages of an inexpensive novel.

I would rather sculpt poetry...

The Untold Story

I could keep staring.
The intoxicating peach brown of your eyes.
But then, a sudden rush of blood hits the brain.
It was never just about the eyes.


I could keep talking.
Lengths of an entirety.
But then, a sudden lump hits the throat.
It was never just about the conversations.


I could make love.
The white wrinkled sheets all over.
But then, a sudden storm hits the seas.
It was never just about making love...

An Ode to Poetry

Dreams die.
The length of another everyday.


The last leaf, fallen

The poetry remains...

Confessions of a Midnight

The misty sweatlets on your forehead
The fragrance of the differences


Stains get washed away.

I would rather carry the scent of you...

Desire

It was the desire to belong.
The desire to be one.
The desire to soak in the rains.
The desire to feel the barren skin.
The desire to burn...

Tonight

Old Monk.
Rains.
And, a poet.

Let tonight's poetry be penned in the goosebumps of your skin...