Sunshine

He’s thirteen
with the mind of a three-year old.
He doesn’t know much.
He doesn’t know much of the world,
its cares, its expectations - the shitstorms.
He sometimes stares into your eyes
or into a stranger’s eyes
and smiles.
He smiles for no reason,
with no fear of being judged.
And when he hugs,
he hugs really tight,
dismissing
the petty stuff
we are scared of so often.
 
Three summers have passed.
My heart still craves
for the warmth of that hug.  
 
(inspired from a character from the mini-series – All Her Fault)

She wore yellow; he brought his little dog to the beach, and everywhere

First love,
the most rash
and indiscreet.
The whole world–
wings, waves, wilds–
paused to watch.

To each their own

The world
deserves your anger.
You,
Destiny’s Wrath.

Why is there something instead of nothing?

a miniscule something–
heavy, deep, and burdening,
hidden
among this vast,
ominous, engulfing darkness.
 
the enormity
of the scale of things,
the meaninglessness
of the scheme of things,
weighing down
on a fistful of heart.  

Gassy Afterthought

At the core of everything
is a little emotion.
 
Somewhere
beyond Orion's belt,
a dwarf star
burps.
The planets
and its many moons
take a step back.
 
The universe
doesn't mind
such social transgressions.
 
The star
takes it easy
and shines. 

A Perfume Called Pain

I don't leave home without it.
A dab or two,
applied directly on the skin,
sometimes
with notes of fear and self-doubt.

On lazy summer afternoons,
mute
to the supposed wisdom of the crowds,
the dewdrops
roll on the brow
as I let myself
douse in the sillage
until the deluge
sears the heart
slowly.

He closed his eyes
took a deep breath
and stopped.
My hand was on his chest.
I stared at the smile on his face
still there.
I stared
for too long
as if
denying
the encroaching chill
or stopping
time itself.
 
The pain
arrived
much later,
not in sudden spurts
but as a slow descent
suffocating me
and separating
my being
from my existence.

the crackle of firewood

There are memories
floating in the air,
there are memories
soaked in the soil.
 
Memories
that time forgot,
stubbornly etched
in the hazy layers of the mind.
They come back
as lies
spat by sharp tongues,
as scars
fading away on yesterday’s skin,
as false comfort
in a faraway hearth.
 
They come back
knocking,
to mock at our ugliness,
to strip us to our bone and dust,
to remind us we are human
after all.