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With a slightly bruised heart, I travel.

Unravel.

Some tunes are in my backpack, the notes all mixed up.

I left my birds home and I know their chirps are lonely back there.

Their mates are either dead or have flown away to lonelier corners of the world.

I think of promises I've made.

In happier moments.

When evening had not set in or words had not hit me.

Or drum beats hadn't made their way into my thoughts.

My memories.

I remember crying in front of her.

It's true.

Loving is short.

Forgetting, so long.

In moments like these, I look at him in my head.

And infidelities.

I must stop this music. Now.

Returning to Classic

I love returning home at this particular hour when the sky's inky, slowly inching towards nightfall.

The red of the brake lights is oddly blurred when the lake meets the sky in a haze of the same ink.

The several windows lit up like tiny pinpricks.

Secrets close to my heart.

His smile.

Kisses on his nose.

His perfume.

One that only I am familiar with.

Him.

Hallelujah to randomness

Sometimes I feel like putting a tune here.

In this case it would be Yiruma.

So much simplicity. Ant and elephant jokes. Colours. Telling someone your love story. Watching repeat episodes of Splitsvilla. Sleeping on a bandh. Killing the hours, till you get of the house to grab some pizza and end up so disoriented, without any sense of time.

New chick in college, with a huge ass and huger boobs.

And the whole of the evening spent talking to a friend about the best ways to hit on her. Or just plain ogle.

So yeah.

Obsessing.

Laughing.

Bitching.

Fearing just a little bit.

Sometimes I feel like putting a tune here.