Last night something came over me, and through a lit screen and sudden courage

I asked Sai out. He, politely declined my proposal and so it came to an end.

A two month long infatuation ended in an anticlimactic finale.

But it did not hurt,

Because I spent the rest of the day with you.

And in your company I can be quiet and loud,

And act like a child and like the wisest human here

All packed in one.

I stole your sweatshirt, and I’m wearing it as I sit writing this.

I accompanied them to visit an apartment on 1st and 7thst. And with the

Oddest space distribution it is quite charming in all it’s convenience. I want

Them to have it because I predict many nights there (curled up in the corner near the fan

Of course). And in between classes and when the day is done, I can find myself there.

The sweetest opportunity you see.

We intend on spending this Friday at our apartment getting drunk and high

And another level of freedom to be peeled away

With those who have shared the most intimate of

These years moments.

I am registered for classes. No classes on Friday, I can already smell the freedom.  

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 April 21st, 2014

The month is closing too soon but not fast enough. I’m sitting across from Max, and we talk

About having apartments close to each other.

I want a cot in your apartment so I can sleepover.

Or maybe you can just take the corner.

I think I’ll just take the corner, because I’d like to believe you didn’t really

Mean what you said to him about not being comfortable with it if you weren’t high.

I’m happy he’s here and I’m happy we’re smiling at each other. He’s enough.

I skipped class to work, but got little work done,

but I havn’t felt this fine in forever. The waters are calm.

I think about my apartment, and my room.

I think about the fire escape, and us sitting on it

Late at night, Talking, smoking, thinking.

I’m so much older now. It’s only been 8 months and

Everything is different.

I am finally again, for the first time in 4 years affection

For someones mind and soul over their beauty.

I missed this feeling, it hasn’t been this real in years.

Sarah and I are growing together again. I can feel the

Summer mending the wounds opened by winter colds.

I hope once you will stay the night, and then stay many nights.


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Not a poem. I haven’t written on in forever.

April 20 2014


When we first spoke about it,

I walked the longer way

So I could hear your thoughts

But windows and what lies

Between them is far more interesting.

And when I lean my head against

Sofa and pretend to sleep

And you lean back and I can smell

You, sitting so close to me.

There is a sinking feeling because

We will sleep in our own beds tonight.


And that was such an excuse,

Because for once I didn’t

Want to sleep alone,

And so I stood at your door and asked

To take a corner and I curled up against your leg

And under the covers you are so

Warm and I can’t help but to wonder

If you’ll ever put your arm around me

Again. In the morning I can trace

The outlines of your perfection

Because I’ve woken up to other faces

But never one so beautiful.

And I will never understand why you

Keep me around.

Today, on a homeward bound train

I read the words you wrote when you were across two oceans

And I know you told me not to,

But I wanted to experience it

Through your words

And hear about the smoky Spanish kiss

and the plot of a summer adventure.

Forgive me.

I don’t know when I started wanting you

And I haven’t felt this way in the longest time.

But you don’t want me that way, because your head

Is clouded with blue eyes and brown hair and

Who knew infatuations could be so blinding.

Suzy said she’s leaving and

She’s going to wake up in Nepal and

Her courage to leave makes me love her more,

But I am just as strong by choosing to stay.

I want to stay. No more borrowed feelings,

No more emptying myself out onto

Dirty dining tables, because there lies a validation

In speaking those words.

And you’re sad on the inside, and It makes me

Sad because that means our friendship is doing nothing

For you. Or maybe I’d like to believe I’m holding

You from tipping over.

If I’m not allowed to drop out, you’re not allowed to drop out.

Am I allowed to drop out?

Yes, you’re allowed to drop out.

Sorry babe, you’re out of this loop,

Because me and him have been drunk and high together

And sat on my bed one night

And talked about who we wanted

And our fathers who didn’t always come home.

We’re a different sorts of connected.

Maybe not completely in the way I’d want,

But this is enough because I always feel like

I don’t deserve him.

Or you.

I’m too lucky in these friendships and I have this

Nightmare that you’re all settling for less,

And one day all of you will leave.

And the stampede of this pedestrian city never

Leaves my chest,

And I have drawn invisible mountains in the sky

And I close my eyes and the in the smell

Of a rainy morning I remember the morning

Of another land, it’s funny how

Things can become shells and vessels to hold feelings.

I no longer love the rain,

And I no longer love cities in the way

I used to.

It can be temporary,

I am trying so hard to recall why I felt that way

Back in ohseven and eight, when

Cities held this promise and music was unfolding

Feelings I cannot even begin to recall.

Bangalore used to be a quiet city.

New York is so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts

and every morning I wake up different, but

never truly perfect.

I used to have this vision, and it remains unfulfilled.

Things are never as bad as they seem,

And I’ve known this for the longest time.


and I have this idea,

that when you return this summer I will tell you

how I feel and you will tell me how you always thought of me.

But the last time things turned out how

I thought they would, I didn’t sleep the whole night.

It’s odd, because we’re so close, but not close enough.

We’re getting there she tells me, but she’s always

Been so optimistic about me, in a way I wish I could

Be optimistic about me. 

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20 MIN.

Can you hear that.

Can you hear the screaming of the wind

As it is strangled by the emptiness

Of a road we used to walk together

And the dust we kicked up.

The dust settled so long ago,

There are pavements there and the road

Lies broken, and the pedalists fall,

And there is no money.

The train is a better option,

Because the children are never quiet

And I am never left with my own thoughts

Which usually contain you,

And the seats are so worn out,

And the tea sellers have grown old,

But broken cups litter the station

And I will never truly leave

Because there are no destination thoughts

In my mind and the space next to me

Is without you.

You aren’t here.

Have you seen the far away lights,

I wonder who lives there,

I wonder who died there.

Lives are lived on a horizon and we glimpse

Past these bars and broken leather.

I can hear the howling of the wind through

Which the train breaks,

I can see the fields which run through this land,

And the women that tend it.

The same women I cannot touch,

Because I was born into a system made

A thousand years ago,

And perhaps a thousand suns have died

And a thousand sons have died

In the grief of this.

Things can change in a day

I once read. 

But a day is not enough to reorder

A world so stubborn

That I can’t even love you.

I carry that burden in my mind,

And now, I carry destination thoughts in

my lungs which dance with anticipation

as the rains dance with content.

We used to dance in the rain

On a terrace from which Orion

Was seen. He watched us too,

And in the night the stars of a thousand years

Counted us, and our conversations.

One. Two. Twenty.

That’s how many generations we can count.

Two. That’s how many generations it took

For everything to fall apart.

Now we can’t wander very far,

and roads are left unwalked on

and baghs are left undiscovered,

and freedom is held in captivity.

So we seek a world in words and

On marble steps under the trees we become

So wise, but just for a summers worth.

And in the cold winter,

This memory will fade,

Because you can’t see very far in

The snow who’s chill sets of over my skin

And soon I feel nothing at all.

The arrival of a changing season,

The glimpse of a lot more cannot warm

These emotions and that’s why I write poetry,

Because words know no seasons,

And it’s so cold the windows are frosted,

But in hear I can feel the wind of summer harvest,

And the smell of swings.

The subcontinent is calling.

I hear it through the voices of strangers,

And I heard it within you yesterday because

you’re eyes carry a warmth I have not felt in months,

and suddenly it’s summer again.

You are summer.

You are here.

I am here.

And lights have never been bright

Because everyone looks far more beautiful this way.

That’s why they never complain,

Of electricity that only lasts a few hours,

Because when the night graces, 

The poets and dreamers come out from

Underneath the coarse hands of field work

And under banyan trees they sit and pass

a cigarette and wander back to the youth,

when idealism was in freshly ironed clothes

and trains that ran from the east and west.

When idealism lied in new brides and wasted grooms.

Before he beat her,

And before they’re children left with that

Same idealism gleaming in their eyes,

And returned with their own children

Who would never know the winding path

Through mango trees or how the monsoons

Make children of everyone.

They find everything in screens and markets,

Never knowing the beauty of a handmade fan

Or a doll which will be drowned every year

And resurrected.

The cities dig deeper into the ground

And rise higher into a gray sky

And we can barely breathe through the smoke

And dust and we are choking of progression already.

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I trace the empty footsteps you’ve left behind,

Into hallways that hold fragments,

Of your curved back passing through it,

Carrying destination thoughts,

While I carry thoughts of you.

I can never catch up,

Because you arrive so quickly,

and I am always tracing you,

but shadows cannot be touched.

 January 13, 2014




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I have watched rivers take course in your eyes,

And sinners dip within their banks,

to wash their sins,

and your eyelids are now so heavy,

with the burden of forgiveness,

which you could never really give,

because the holy river was never truly pure.  

A filth lies deep beneath its floors,

And as you blink,

The bodies wash ashore.

January 10, 2014

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I have not written a poem in 3 DAYS.

There are problems to solutions we found a long time ago, 

but I never carry through. 

I am afraid of consistency, 

because it fails me and I fail it. 

The only consistency I find within myself

is breathing, 

and sometimes things get so hard, 

even that escapes me. 

This is more of a monologue, 

written as poem, 

because ultimatley 

art is anything, 

and art is nothing. 

January 9, 2014

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It was my birthday

I do not want to hurt you

despite the fact that you’ve hurt me

for almost 3 years now. 

Your sadness makes me sad, 

and that I continue to love you

after all this time, 

just makes me sadder. 

It was my birthday. 

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There is a place people go to die,

But I hear they fly instead

They plunge into emptiness

but find themselves carried by

the wind into the open expanse,

To find themselves weightless,

Cheating gravity.

There is a place people go to fly.

I hear the thud is barely audible,

Like the sound of feet barely touching the ground

And taking towards the sky again.

There is a place. 


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Clouds from our mouths,

And the cold devours us

As we would devour the laughter

Of those we miss too often.

The fog settles on ice

And we pass through it with

Stumbling ease.

I watch so many fall,

Only to rise soon enough,

Mustering a dignity from between

Paining limbs.

There is a beauty in learning,

In gliding amongst the cold air

In holding hands with you.

In falling.

In rising again, even though

The cold devours us,

As we would devour the laughter

Of those we miss too often.


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