a poem

This is a photo of the author taken by Jessica Lia

I see the world through her deep brown eyes.
I asked her to call me by her name.
I read her poem.

her silent eyes,
her clumsy curl hair,
her stare to the dark,
want me to love her,
caress her brown skin.

but she does not want to talk.
what her longing says -
she yearns to attend my words —
of love in which it’s only us -
no, I know you.

she wants me to sit beside her — not so far.
in secret, she wants to be a love that she can die for.
unfailingly, the way I want to touch her hand,
sniff her long neck,
kiss her puffy nose.

she too wants to play with my fingers,
she wants me to be her colliding star!

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A poem

This a photo of the writer taken by herself

pitter-patter rain was showering the dust off the plants

little lilies were breathing after a long day’s heat stress.

cross-legged — not a lady like —

I am thinking to say something while inhaling the petrichor,

and you intrude.

I wonder how did you ask thus.

I do not have many words to splurge on my yearning.

yet let me tell you…

sometimes I want to run to you

sit beside and hold your hand only.

Hush! do not piss me off!

at best I can ask for you to take my name on the lease

for your evening

to lean on your shoulder.

do not remind me the lease was over an evening only.

let it be midnight.

let me fall on your coffer

and listen to the monsoon frogs and forget me not.



A poem

This photo is a photo of the author taken by her friend Jessica Lia.

What is it that is so breathtakingly beautiful about the graveyard?

and those dried rose petals inside my yellow diary?

the alga smell of dried rose is like vaginosis.

or like the lovers I have abandoned.

but there is something cunning about it —

whisper down there.

— It’s my urban decay.

— It’s my salivary discharge —

caused by my urban loneliness.

either (only) desire


(only) despair.

It is a graveyard.

It is a dried rose.





Read Between the Lines| Storyteller| Poetry of everyday life