The Last Love Letter

Have you ever looked up the midnight sky wondering if the star-crossed love ballads have made their way beyond the cursed clouds?
Have you ever lost your very existence in the midst of a nowhere cramped up for blanks, pondering over the scent of possibilities in a singular fragrance?

Have you ever woken off a tender slumber, fingers losing their way in the abyss beneath the thighs, the canopy of hair eclipsing the contoured terrains across the ribs, minutes away from what remained of the umbilicus, mauling the very idea of outlines as you breathed my poetry in your skin?


If you have, you'd know where to find me.

Listeners - Unplugged

|| silences are often the best answers to questions we could never wake up to ||

The War at Hand

We are all at war


At war with beliefs
At war with spaces
At war with blanks
At war with existences
At war with voids
At war with worlds


We are all at war within and without
We are all but at war with our very own blood and bones and the flesh that wraps them around


Ripped between what has become of us and what could have
We cut our beings open
Caught in a star-crossed affair of ifs and buts
We carve out skins bare
Caged in the differences of dusk and dawn
We lay down our pieces falling apart


But, we never bleed alone
For, we are all at war
And, wars aren't about singulars


The war to hold back drenched eyelashes to our empty monologues
The war to write down unseen assaults as if they were poetry
The war to silence screaming lungs lamenting at burnt houses and fresh walls
The war to keep remembering our stories in the seas of plastic faces and make-believe lives



We are all but at war with our very own blood and bones and the flesh that wraps them around
We are all but slowly yet steadily rushing to the cancer that is us

Who We Thought Were Men

When was it, the facade of mascara you wear everyday like a new dawn, became your actual face?
Do you remember?
When was it, the pitch dark kohl you outline your lost eyes in, somewhat like an eclipse, fell weak to the cancerous dark circles?
Do you remember?
When was it, the love you've always had for blue, as if a mermaid afloat the oceans, could no more live up to the blunt bruises?
Do you remember?
When was it, the tooth fairies you'd desperately hoped to be true, as if living off Aesop, failed at being, to the flesh-digging fangs?
Do you remember?
When was it, the cliche fragrance of ruby red roses you'd pined for every adolescent afternoon, drowned in the stinking inebriated breath of bloody hands crawling inexplicable lengths and depths of your measured skin?
Do you remember?


You'd say, every time he wore a new face, a different one from the last one, to the piling heap of rotting flesh, you died a day more.
And I'd smile, a shade paler than the last one.
You'd say, every time he was inside you, living an entire existence elsewhere, reciting letters to an address unfamiliar, you died a day more.
And I'd smile, a shade paler than the last one.
You'd say, every time his lightning struck thunders down your wuthering spine and stormed entrails trembling from the rains of yesterday, you died a day more.
And I'd smile, a shade paler than the last one.
You'd say, every time his crippled crumbled vanity pinned the limbs of the questions living in your wrinkles, you died a day more.
And I'd smile, a shade paler than the last one.
You'd say, every time his intoxicated eyes and rogue desires crossed paths with your humble sobriety, ripping it as if cut open, you died a day more.
And I'd smile, a shade paler than the last one.



Who we thought were men, carry corpses of women like they were meat, as their brittle penises play hide and seek.

Who we thought were men, pluck bones of men like they were toothpicks, as the lynched vaginas and slaughtered breasts choke.


Do the dead smile though?

Where Went the Love Letters?

Where went the love letters?

Where went the love letters
Where went the old-school romantics
Where went the love for words in love

Could you ever tell?

The first ever love letter
The nervous veins shuddering the brittle daydreams and the hesitant desires
The first ever wry smile at the length of the crooked innocent lips

Could you ever forget?

Love changed faces as letters knocked newer addresses and unfamiliar habits
Some sailed the puddles, some flew the skies; paper boats and paper planes weren’t nostalgia back then
But the wait, the wait for the letters always felt the same; pacing heart rates and cold sweat galloping down the spine

Could you live it all, one last time and one more?

Where went the love letters
Where went the poets scattering words like rainbows across overcast skies
Where went the romantics and their ballads that smelt like petrichor

Could you rewrite it all, for the sake of it?

Where went the love letters?
Could you ever tell?

Dead Aesop's Fable

the dead decompose
the undead rot
the survivors tell war tales by the street begging for condolences

;

life seems the only stranger to existences

Hate is the Antonym of Love

Do you have a dictionary

Look up the dictionary
What do they say is the antonym of love
Sorry what, what’d just say
Hate is the antonym of love, you say
Yes, you are right
Hate is the antonym of love; the opposing exact of emotional upheavals, or so we are told

I was told the same, for you and me, we are no different, you see
Dictionaries don’t quite decipher differences half as much as we do
So much so that I often wish a life of grammar that effortless yet congruent

So much so that I wish hatred could be the way out of love
So much so that I wish hate was indeed the antonym of love
So much so that I wish wars could be the way out of wars
So much so that I wish bullets could avenge bloodlines
So much so that I wish black and white could be the way out of grey
So much so that I wish apathy could fathom what lies beyond binaries
So much so that I wish band-aids could heal heartburns and scarfaces
So much so that I wish words were all about words, just about words
So much so that I wish acquaintances never turned strangers ever again
So much so that I wish deaths weren’t an everyday but once and for all

It costed me blood and bones, and, skin and flesh
It costed me the entirety of a marriage and countless liaisons called affairs otherwise

It costed me half a life of a lifetime to know we have been lied to
It costed me half a life of a lifetime to know we should have burnt those dictionaries long before we adulted
It costed me half a life of a lifetime to know grammar is but relative; congruency and differences are but subject to conveniences


Hate isn’t an antonym for love
Hate never was the antonym for love

For hatred never healed the wounds love had left behind; hatred did cut deeper though


Hate isn’t the antonym for love
Indifference is