Ei papri chaat

Video games, and a final chokeslam to Trish. "I never lose at games like these, honey. Even if I'm Trish, I'll win."

Boyhood photos.

Sparks.

The entire city before me, wind through my hair. An undercurrent. Dusk.

Swerving in and out to finally arrive. Soft eyes on me.

Fragile.

And sleepy complaints about too much tenderness.

A funny thought struck. It's all the difference between vertical and horizontal stripes really.

first names and first thoughts

which way do they walk? which turns do they take? do their eyes still have that half-torn look, the same which they wore when those irises bore into yours? a hint, a slight clue, just anything.. only when the first name brings you to a sudden stop one sultry calcutta evening.

you run away, you ignore. you be patient and stop yourself. a reminder of things buried way back - again and again and yet again. coming back home to a cold that hits the bones. a change of views, from lines and angles to colours and questions that you won't answer. monosyllables do not hit home. but please, oh please, just once.. let me know what dreams i broke and what frames i escaped?

the joy of nothingness

orange light

upside down

in perspective

and

slow dancing

in a burning room

while he and she

sang some

long forgotten

90's number

fingers tracing

trails that

dust left behind

and patches of

a different sky

lit by

a hundred fireflies

almost as if

you've arrived

to yourself again

to the joy of

nothingness