Blue, Pink, Grey

Blue, Pink, Grey

The strangest thing I’ve seen her do is build a sky on her own. She took a piece of paper and a blue crayon and started coloring from the top left. She colored diagonally, and when she was half-way through, I thought she’d stop and pick up a different color to finish. The sky’s never all blue. Sometimes a little red seeps in and it can look beautiful and at other times, it’s white, full of clouds, as if it is a clean slate for you to look at and reboot. It blushes pink sometimes because there are so many poets constantly flirting with the sky. And sometimes, the sky sees people for what they are and goes grey.

Artbreak

Artbreak

You say you’re falling in love with me
and that’s why you need to walk away now
before I break your heart into two.
Of course, I’ll break your heart. I’m an extrovert.
That’s what we’re famous for doing.

Self-love or otherwise.

Self-love or otherwise.

Your first attempt at love
teaches you true love.
The ‘I’ve got to make this work’ kind,
the innocent, ‘vanilla is the best’ kind,
the unconditional, ‘always? always.’ kind.
For me, the girl was a reincarnation
of everything I had ever loved.
There were no terms and conditions,
no warnings,
and we didn’t take steps one day at a time.
Our bed was a cosmic sky of fairly dust
and we didn’t need hope.
There were a few fights
here on text messages
there on WhatsApp statuses,
but all was good forever
till one day it wasn’t.

Fallen angels

Fallen angels

My therapist in all his
self-love and happiness glory
asked me to tell you how much I loved you,
so this is it.
This is my confession.

Let’s live forever.

Let’s live forever.

“You know, I’d heard that if you fall in love with a poet, you’d live forever as poetry. But you haven’t written something for me or used metaphors for me ever since I said I loved you. Why is that?”

“I cannot believe you don’t remember why,” I giggled. “You remember how we partied the night we told each other we were in love? We were both six shots down but only you were drunk because of the alcohol. I’d willed myself to not be drunk because I wanted to remember every bit of that day. You asked me that night, after thirty-seven minutes of confessing your love, to never write a poem on you. I was still thinking of how you’d told me that I made your heartbeat the same way it beat when you were swimming – your favorite thing in the whole wide world, and how there were a hundred butterfly strokes in your stomach when I kissed you. But I managed to ask why you didn’t want me to write on you. You told me you didn’t want to be here after I was gone, even if as a happy love poem.”

“That does sound plausible. Let’s change that for a bit. I don’t want reasons why you love me. I want metaphors. Shoot for the stars, poet!” You laughed, six shots down again.

“Okay, poetry. You’re the eighth color of the rainbow. I know there are ‘supposedly’ only seven, but I think of the sky as the eighth color. Humans tend to limit things but poetry doesn’t believe in that. Like the beautiful sky, I see you everywhere. You’re my seventh shot of this tequila. I’m sure I’ll get drunk if I have it, just like I’m drunk on you all the time. Do you know the feeling you get when you go home at the end of the day and your puppy leaps onto you? You’re it. You’re my panipuri (an Indian tasty dish), novels, green t-shirt, my heart. You’re everything that makes me happy.”

“I think if I write a poem on you (it’ll be pretty bad but who cares?) and you write one on me, I won’t be here alone as a happy love poem. We’ll be the happy love poem. But you should know, you’re very cheesy.”

“and you’re very beautiful.” I kissed you.

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Into poetry? – Soulmates?
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