The art of not fucking.

I love to sleep
                The sleep of love
                               With you.

Love makes us

Our smaller hands
        Smaller bodies

Night rushes
Into the arms of my lover
                 The back of her mind
                  The length of her spine

Rhythm of slight movements
Drunk on red wine

Love blooms
In sucking scars
Of each others bodies

Softening the harshness
Under the covers

Alternate longings
Half belongings

The art of fucking
The art of
Sensual longing.


Separation Anxiety.

He is going away tonight
To dissolve in the city scapes
Of a brighter city
With brighter lights

No more will he illuminate
The dark spaces
Of my life

I will miss him
His smell
His car
His words
His eyes

He will ask me
About my life

I will tell him
He took half of it

With him.

We will break

Until the next time

We get to feel
Our auras mix

He is leaving

I am


Talk is cheap.

We had our plate full of silence. We ate together.

The night is tender
Just as the sensations inside me

In pieces

I rest
Almost beautifully

Wide awake
By the intoxicating lives we live together

This pillow is a mountain
I am crawling

Through your neck

This moment is your shoulder


Emotions turn opaque


You break yourself
To make yourself.
We hate to know what love feels like.
We jump to realise the fall.

Is more like a call.

Attention to detail
Feels more like a crawl.

Of an ant
Zoning out

The surface
Pouring out

Melted sugar
White and warm

Our sky is barren
Factories torn

Like papers

We are haters
Of capitalism
And its makers

Who sleep after stealing
Freedom from us all

We dive into
The slavery that’s born

Into our society
To rule us all.

One fine day
When nothing remains

You can skip office
To walk in the rain

No more emails
No more phone calls

Just you in a world
With stars
That come from

Absurd Sundays.

This is not a post. This is just a feeling. A feeling falling out of a writers pocket.
The pockets though empty, feel heavy with uncalculated logic.
This is not a thought process its just a puff of smoke.
This is not a morning. It is just an existential joke.

I would rather be on a bus to somewhere cold.

Take my half inspired lungs
Paste them over the phone.

Watch the rain pour.

Wish for a life
Not spent at home.

I am a flame,
A white flower
A shore.

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An ode to contemplation.

Uninvited guest. Too much beauty can be paralyzing. Curiosity has slept. Conversation dissolves. Silences erupt.

Between fun and boredom I lick death.

To realize true friendships, Look in retrospect.

never underestimate the power of a good molecular structure. Let the air gush through you. Be. Like a ventilator. At times, exhaust yourself.

Don’t smile too much. You look nice with a straight face on.

He met me and said I think you are the most interesting person. I want to see you naked.

Sometimes you can’t feel butterflies in your stomach because they come and sit on your hands.

Don’t let it go to waste. Co incidences do not recycle. Supernatural mornings are hyper.

Poetry is skin

Send me one of yours
No one has ever seen.

Sing a little slower
The tune of madness
A background score
To my solitary gladness.

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A soul can share bodies.

Dipped in an orangish hue

Your shadow grew wings

I watched you.

Vision highlights the glow
Your room is a rectangular globe
It spins around me
I am in a mood
To watch your gestures unfold.

These songs
You play
Are windows to your soul

You sing so loud
Your voice seeps through all my pores.

A drop of poetry mixes in my blood.

I am your
Crystal mud.

Its hymn.

He talks
I dare not stir
                I dare not
Look into
his eyes
   So valley like
      His face
          with biology

It’s physics
He speaks off
        I don’t stir a bit

I listen.

My vision
with     the        trees
Bathed in the yellow

They are high
They sit tall
In their car

Buried in the soil
Of the city
In corners

They have a home


It’s over.


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