t is about all the violence and romance in my heart. Its
about the trapped breaths here and there. In hope of
breathing them out, I write. Hence, I exist.
Picture courtesy: Anthonysarts on Deviant Art Hands make me sad, More often than they make me happy. Because I thinkĀ the only thing Understands loss better than hands Are your lungs. Hands documentā...
How do you give a farewell when time runs so fast that by the time I finish uttering āGoodbyeā, you have already traveled 257 meters in the air? My hands tremble as they try to become cā¦...
This got written for The Great Indian Poetry challenge #12. The thing I was told to write about was āI couldnāt stop looking at herā. She reminds me of postcards and of the feelinā¦...
This has been long due. I thought this up while I was in conversation with one of my senior colleagues about three or four months ago; maybe longer. I had gone up to his desk and we were discussingā¦...
Picture Courtesy: The Artidote For the first time when I touched you, I could feel my backbone dissolve, one vertebra at a time. My ribs turned to bubblegum ash, as my lungs filled with the breathsā¦...
So this is what it feels like to wake up in another country. This is how the human heart can ask passports to mind their own business. When your fingers ran on the length of my spine, and on the peā¦...