Never my Art

I never want you to be my poetry darling,

Never do I want to rhyme a word to your name.

I don’t want to dedicate any verse to you love,

Or hide you in a story under a stranger’s name.

‘Coz if I do

I know for sure,

I’m not hearing you laugh

Or hearing you snore.

‘Coz if I do

I know for sure,

I’m recalling your face

Instead of kissing your brow.

I never want you to be a song I write

‘Coz I write of sorrow

And regret,

Not love.

I write out of tears and not out of kisses;

Of endings and pain

That sears and sears.

I pen down longings

And waste ink on heartbreaks.

I paint in blood

And write of times

When my voice shakes.

So never do I want you to be my art darling;

‘Coz never do I want for this to have an expiry date.

It’s not Love

It’s not like I love you or anything.
Don’t get me wrong,
And don’t freak out.
It’s just not like that.
It’s just that whenever you are around
Or I talk about you,
Or even think about you
I suddenly become fifteen again.
I become the one with floral frocks, falling fast
For the first time –
Umm, In confusion (Not love, it’s not love)
It’s just that whenever my phone blinks
And your name flashes on it’s screen
Something somersaults in my tummy.
Something inside it gets really excited
When your name is mentioned
Or is even co-incidentally scribbled somewhere.
But don’t get me wrong.
It’s absolutely nothing romantic.
Maybe it’s just hunger you know; in the tummy.
A hunger for your awkward and slightly slanted smile,
The one that squints your tiny eyes almost completely.
It’s really adorable.
But wait, I don’t adore YOU per se.
It’s really just that smile.
Well sometimes the crooked nose as well.
But that’s just general.
Nothing deep.
I don’t want you to misunderstand so I’m making it crystal clear
Its nothing like one sees in cheesy movies
Or reads in corny novels.
Not at all.
It’s just that mostly I don’t feel normal when your fingers brush my skin.
But wait again
I think I have medical issues regarding pulse rate and breathing in that case.
So
It’s not you.
Don’t get me wrong.
It’s certainly not love for you.
I know that for sure.
But I do love your red tie.
It does something to me,
Something that would ruin the innocence of this poem.
You should have it checked though.
It’s a little hypnotic.
It’s not like I care about you madly,
I care ofcourse, but not insanely.
But yes, when someone hurts you
Scenes of all my favourite serial killer documentaries flash in my mind.
And when some girl you like doesn’t like you back
Leaving you heartbroken;
I want to shake her existence and ask her
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
That sorta thing.
But not love.
Nope.
I don’t know if you notice but you say my name differently
When I’m sad
Or drunk.
Yeah.
You kind-of pour all the care in that tone itself
And everything becomes just fine.
But that can be imagination.
Because of drinking you see.
Not love.
So you know
It’s just not what you might think it to be.
But I cannot deny,
Your silly jokes are quite loveable.
Though wrongly timed,
They still do the trick.
Trick to what?
Not the one that makes me fall for you. No.
The trick to just make someone laugh.
Gosh, the misinterpretations.
Do you understand me now?
Its not affection there,
No romantic feelings.
It’s just that I feel fifteen
And end up writing
Teenage “Love” poems at twenty two.
Oh Crap!
Not Love

Funereal Love

Oh behold!
A funeral.
Wailing women,
Sobbing men.
Children playing in the backyard
In hushed voices.
Someone told them not be loud,
“But why?”
I heard a small boy shout.
People streaming in
Like cascades of white water.
Some close, some distant.
Mostly silent;
Or with praises of the dead
In whispers.
Red nerves clouded the white of
Several eyes.
Cries,
Sulks,
or whimpers;
No dry eyes.

Except one.
That had laughter laying on the lids,
As her lips broke into a
A mellifluous Ghazal
Beside the shrouded figure,
Dissipating all the heavy silence,
With perfect notes and rhythms.
Creating a gaping audience,
Out of mourning relatives,
Instigating me to break through
The crowd
And take the front row.

The trance lingered,
For a five minutes or more,
Then a sudden hault,
Vacuum,
And a distant giggle
Of a kid in the yard.
“She is waiting for the corpse
To sing the male verse,”
I heard a tiny murmur
Didn’t see it’s source.
And there
Amidst a funeral
In a funereal atmosphere,
I witnessed love
That transcended spheres.
Tears of glee
Trickled down my cheeks,
For the unknown dead
And little known wife.
Morbid are things related to the death
But mortality adds to love,
The dark tinge of red.

The Other Woman

I love her and she loves me but I make love to a sin that has bewitched me.

Thrice or four times I have seen her cry. Her tears fall ceaselessly upon my shoulder as she swears to leave me this time, but cannot. I make a million promises going down on my knees, hugging her by the waist. Promises to never go back; promises to love her forever; promises I hope I can keep.
But here I am, standing at the gates of the dealer. In front of the pink house, burning with red passion I lose track of promises and I break all vows.

How hard is it to get rid of an addiction when the drug is the dealer and the dealer
is the drug? How hard is it to ignore the velvet voice over the phone asking you to come up?
I love her but I love her too. She loves me, but she loves me too. One is home and the other, an adventure. One is stability and the other, I don’t know. And I gravitate back to her, intoxicated, to get the answer to that ‘I don’t know.’

As she answers the door in her flimsy top, I undress my mistake mentally. Yes that’s what I call her; a mistake. A name she has grown to like with every lie I tell over the phone while I am tangled in the bed sheets with her.
Her skin: a magnet to my iron. I hold it tight enough to leave the impressions of blood on it. Her cologne: cocaine to my senses. I sniff till my vision becomes a haze.
I don’t have the patience to let her finish her sentences. With every word she says, I imagine her lips moving on mine.
I inspect her body before loving it and punish her for any scratch that is not mine. Not mine, but someone else’s, she dare not be. I make every desperate attempt to fence my property. I paint blue-red gashes wherever my teeth get access of her flesh and she climaxes under me with each hard bite.
I never let her dress even after having her a several times. I hate those fabrics that touch her constantly. Instead, I lazily trace all my embossed grazes that cover the round of her breast, the bent of her thigh, the curve of her shoulder and savour each cringe the wounds instigate in her. I let the pain of her revenge bites wash over me. She tends them with soft red kisses and cries.For a long time I admire all my branding proudly, the only form of art I know.
I kiss her from her neck to toe chanting “Mine! Mine! Mine!” with every breath, while she squirms and moans all night. I tickle her with soft touches and she laughs breathlessly in my mouth. That laughter, the one that drives me insane even when it bursts out in a public place, is the one that keeps me up in the nights she is away.

And in the nights when I live inside her, a small voice always pricks at the back of my mind, “two more days and she would go.” But never can I make her stay for me for more than two weeks, maximum four. Still in those days I ignore a hundred calls, from the woman waiting for me at home.
Accusations, loyalty and morals, all get side-lined while I count the moles on her neck and spine and my phone vibrates on the side table the entire night.

On our last night every time, I become the beast I fear. I fantasize peeling her skin to live inside it. I almost devour her limbs in an attempt to keep her inside me. I hurt her I know, but she never complains. She smiles through all of that physical pain. I try to quench my thirst before she leaves, but when I watch her climbing the train compartment, I find my mouth dry again.
I remember the times she used to cry at my feet. “Leave her,” she used to say “If you really love me.” I never could, I was too afraid. Weak, she said, to put a claim.

Now, she laughs when I propose to elope, like I have cracked the best of jokes.
“I am the other woman and I like that more. I like being the sin instead of your home. I love your racing heartbeat and your hunger for more. It’s fun to be the one you cheat with but not the one you cheat on. I love you too much to see your passion fade off.”