The smell of trees.

The smell of trees.

We’ve spoken about Agastya before, in this post – A new haircut. This poem is based on a very particular line that I wrote for him in that post. I hope you enjoy this! Do comment, a lot. Literally.

“He missed his people and the way they smelled like different kinds of trees.”

– Utsav Raj

Home is a tricky concept.
I think of it as a wall,
with cracks running down its spine,
picture frames of memories
hanging on fragile nails,
and a very nostalgic touch to it.
You decide what the wallpaper is,
what it looks like
and what it smells like.

For me,
it looked like people
and smelled like trees.
My best friend
who I barely spoke to anymore,
stood on the far left.
If I ruffled his hair
I’d feel a breeze on my face
rushing away to hide
its European Larch scent,
fresh and distant.
A kid I used to teach
stood on the far right
and when I tickled him,
he would giggle endlessly.
He was sweet and smelled of honey
like Sassafras trees.
Dead center
was the girl I loved.
When I kissed her forehead,
and my nose played hide and seek
with her hair,
I caught a fragrance
and it reminded me strongly 
of cherry blossoms.

Home is a tricky concept,
and unless you leave,
you’ll never know what you’ll miss.

Instagram handle: @myspirals

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A happy puppy.

This one is for old times. A lot of metaphors, a lot of love and exactly what posts like ‘my darkness‘ looked like. I hope you like it! Also, do comment a lot. Literally.

I was looking for a love that was broken when I found him. A tall man with sad eyes and a happy heart.

He reminded me of the kind of love that drowns you. His words always felt like a push off the cliff and his touch felt more hot than warm. But then if I drowned, he’d kiss me till I could breathe again. If he pushed me off a cliff, he’d fall with me and hold me close in an embrace and take the impact. Where I only tasted lust in his kisses, I felt love in the way his fingers would intertwine with mine. He had me confused about everything and I didn’t know what to do.

He told me his darkest secrets the very first time we spoke. Everything about him reminded me of something. His eyes were like hidden treasure chests and his laugh reminded me of broken dvds and empty parking lots. The way he walked reminded me to keep up my pace and his smiles looked like Christmas lights. He reminded me of wet sand, naked Thursdays, and a lot of dirty coffee mugs. His tales were of broken hearts and twisted alleys. He reminded me of over-sized shirts, cold wind and terraces on winter nights.

He was raw. You could find poetry hidden in the wrinkle of his eyes and lust sitting on his lips. When I kissed him, my spine arched like a big smile and our lips rested on top of each other like an ‘ABAB’ rhyme. I remember when I hugged him for the first time. He felt like a campfire and a forest fire at the same time. His breath against my neck swept me off my feet as I hugged him tight.

You know how the sea wags its tail in big blue waves and shares stories as it crashes against the shore? That’s what he was. A happy puppy that reminded me of the sea.

Instagram: @myspirals

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Can poets run out of words?

Can poets run out of words?

Do share with your friends if you liked it. Just one click to share on Facebook. Also, shoutout to Onahdave for nominating me for an award. Check him out!

As a poet,
I can easily associate metaphors
with my previous boyfriends.
In eighth grade,
my first crush was a butterfly in my stomach. Continue reading Can poets run out of words?

He is a metaphor.

“What was he like?” She asked me.

“Whenever I think of him, I think of the day I spent with him last winter. That day has become one of my favorite metaphors. Christmas was still far away but the spirit was catching up with all of us already. The streets were covered in snow and the people of my neighborhood absolutely loved walking around holding hands and wearing coats that felt heavier than the load of responsibilities on their shoulders.

Chang – the kind of guy who would always choose such a day for a date – took me to a cabin beside a lake where his best friend used to live. Fei was an eighty-year-old shoe-maker who was famously known for her stories. When Chang was ten, his mother had to leave the city urgently and he stayed over at Fei’s place, listening to stories all night about birds that carried messages and hunters that befriended animals. That’s how they became friends.

Our date was nothing fancy. We spent the day talking to Fei and eating dumplings that she made. She shared Chang’s favorite story with me: Fei and her first trip to Tokyo. Fei’s parents had died when she was very young. They were on a trip from Harbin – where they lived – to America. Their plane, however, crashed in Tokyo and since then, Fei had always wanted to visit the city. She was in Tokyo for a month because she felt the warmth of her parents every time she walked through the streets of the city. Tokyo felt exactly like the last time she had hugged her parents.

Chang and I stayed till nine with Fei. I heard her talk about her memories and scars all day but when I walked back home that night with Chang, I felt like I knew him better. I knew the kind of movies he would like and a hug from him would feel like to my winter soul. That’s how you get to know people after all – by their choices and favorite stories. And that is how they become metaphors.”

My therapist smiled, wrote something on a notepad, and moved onto the next question. “What’s one city you’ve always wanted to visit?”

Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post: A letter to music – gratitude and stories.
Related post: The war has ended.

Give me prompts in the comment section below and share if you liked this!


Give me prompts in the comments section below! Enjoy reading. Instagram handle: @myspirals

Despite being six vodka shots down,
I was sober as I called you.
It isn’t possible to drunk-dial you,
Because you are like a good night’s sleep.
Just the thought of you slows down my heart-beat,
and makes me feel at home.
I don’t need to be drunk around you,
as I tell you everything anyway.
I’m not afraid of blabbering on and on,
Like a tape on repeat,
Because you’ve said that I am your favorite song.
I do everything with you,
that I wouldn’t even dream of, unless drunk.
You are a glass of water,
for every shot that I have.
You’re salt and lime,
and my poetry’s rhyme.
If I am so alive with you,
How can liquor make drunk
as I call you?

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Previous post: Addictions and lies.
Related post: Hope and caution. 

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