On Endings.

What has often bothered me, is not the ending of things, but the ease with which I’ve seen perfectly beautiful journeys destroyed for the littlest of things. It is the loss of what should have been, could have been, and now will never be. And the saddest part of it all, is that you never noticed until that time had gone. Perhaps it is why I’ve always done my best to glue things back together again, but release is the sweetest peace, in and of itself.



There is none between our palms,
Because you refused to let go,
When you squeezed my hand in farewell.

There is plenty of it between,
My mother and I.

It is all taken up,
By the fragrance of your bath-wash,
Filling every breath I take.

The oceans I could not cross,
Although your pain was clear.

Always non-existent, when I sat beside Adurna,
And she taught me how to love.

An Andromeda I discovered,
While your cologne clung to my pores.

The loss my family knew,
When Gran did not remain.

“the space between us”:
A great book I once read,
Which became the story of us.



Monday, May 4, 2015. 01:33 hrs.
*An old prompt I took a little too seriously while browsing through The Poet’s Billow.*

Four Count Rest.

There are sirens constantly blaring,
Near this place I learned to call home;

The night air is chilly, like it reeks,
Of old winter-breath touched with decaying frost-bite;

The fridge trudges on—
Foot-steps mechanical-sounding,
In the artificial silence
I’ve created with the remote;

A lone dog howls,
Motor-cycles roar by,

But in all this symphonic malarkey,
My phone is awkwardly mum–

No fancy two-beat,
Merely, the hanging coffin, of the long
Four count rest.

Sunday, May 3, 2015. 23:32 hrs.