through the hourglass i peer to see this golden dust drizzle inward,

swallowed by a starved vortex

like those halcyon days when

sugar didn’t feel like mites on my tongue.

with weathered fingers i

overturn this simplistic contraption

and like a metafictional novelist

through the hourglass i peer again

—timeless covet

bypath pray hid 

i refuse to believe our worlds will never collide, like meteors with potsherds of moondust and ice strewn across the milky way that lies between your palm and mine. maybe i’ll try to steal a handful of iridescent stars from the rabbit-hole of your eyes to save like silver for those who come after us. i’ll pick up a needle to embroider the constellations of our astrological signs onto canvassed bedsheets to show the world that chrysomallus and castor & pollux can shine as brightly together as they do when the seasons change. when the phone clicks and hums i’ll kiss you so hard there’ll be nothing else to be heard but the mechanic clanking of the ritualized orbit of our planet and god knows how many out there, around the only truth we’ve ever known. you are the meteorite that burns the brightest in this eigengrau abyss, and i’m standing here, still as i can be, ready to feel tremors shiver down my spine


rest your bones from time to time because there is an unavowed need to have those moments in which we sit down in repose: the only way to catch a glimpse of delicate seedlings swaying in the cracks of the asphalt pavement, how they stretch their necks to satiate their thirst for cups of sunlight. petals a tad bit more saturated than their mother’s, she’s an ocean away. tip-toeing to reaching a little higher than the sporadic weeds to see every setting of the sun. slapped so hard by the wind that its head descends to the earth. then recovers and dreams grandly again, skyward.

so everything is motionless and we see motion.

then we understand and carry on.

(sit down again if you must)


act of contrition

in bitter retrospect, i lay my head down and my vision becomes one with the multitudinous stars. the placid rhythm of their pulsation, analogous to the heartbeat of history, keeps … slowing … down … and in my great sorrow for all the thing i’ve done i seep away into soothing repose, like rainwater into a shore, letting the waves take me with them to a better tomorrow, where i am forgiven


it breaks my heart to hypothetise walking down the aisle in a ravishing white gown with an imperishable, mangled scar that clefts my body in twain. yet, i leave my brace on a hanger beside my bed and with great vexation, let myself drift into a dismal slumber, forgetting to say a prayer.

before i go

should all rare things not be documented? i look into this muted sunrise for the thousandth time — but for the first time i see more than just orange hues dissolving into the sunlight. they are lyrical colors dancing in celebration of a new day, so as for the end of one, and never once lamented about how long it has been since i had partaken in this perennial ceremony. i will miss the beauty i chance upon once i’m no longer cooped up in this little apartment, when i move across the country, but i know all good things will move with you, wherever you’re carried to by your feet.


in my final letter to you:

the curtains have long fallen, closing this tragicomic play, and in (somewhat) bittersweet hindsight, i now understand that we were not ready for each other, no matter how much we wished we were. our bones have not been rattled by enough storms, skin not torn by enough gravel. to fly free into dysthymic clouds of muted sorrow is the most fitting of favours we can do for each other after the storm; to go out and feel the wind running through our hair, dig our toes into raw earth and take pieces of the universe to make one with our own souls — we need to live before we can love. it’s almost been two years since our gazes could meet only in fragments of mirrors, and i do not have a doubt that your wings have already seen waters and skies from faraway lands. but all this time i have refused to leave the rusty cage of our history, keeping my wings withdrawn until i see you once again. until i knew that we were ready to take off together, believing that i was ahead of times. but today, i promise, i am going to soar out of imprisonment; i pray that i am going to grow everywhere i land like seeds of wildflowers, to take sips of every lake i overpass; in hopes that once god knows i’ve lived, that the universe is inside me and no longer outside, i will once again see your face again in a crowd, when i take my bow with great poise—poise one gains when they have witnessed and swallowed the world.

post solis

nobody thinks of the sunrise as a metaphor, when it is in all actuality. in thousands of years of idle orbit, earth’s inhabitants think what they see, despite theoretical defects. the human skull, a barrier to true wisdom, is so rooted to this world we know of. to sit among dewy bushes with a cup of coffee to catch the ritualized rising sun makes the moment seem fleeting, when in fact, the golden ball of fire is nothing but permanent, while transience and mortality is all we will ever know of. who are we to predict the years that the sun has left to burn in all its glory, when we have still not found a way to induce how many more times we ourselves may witness it, our momentariness, our final denouement?

us, puerile, earthly beings measure our time, our environment, and lives by the immortal sun, yet forget to see clearly the colossal disparity between it and us. just as i hold your face between my hands in clandestine visits, bathed in moonlight, it slips my mind that although you are like me, evanescent and a physical body destined to return to the earth as dust as what we started from, the ephemeral rhythm of your heart is what will let your ribs forever rise… and set… long after the sun makes the horizon its grave. time perpetuates nothing, epochs fly by one after another, yet you are my immortal metaphor, and the fire in your eyes will continue to burn for the cosmos after all the solar deities have dropped their staffs. 


all beauty and great things in this world are created because one has another. if we didn’t all coexist, there would not be a need to write, a need to construct, a need to theorize. i’m starting to think that we humans only create for. we dance for. we paint for. we sing for. even the mighty taj mahal, those towers of white marble in all its grandeur, was the creation of mortal love for another.


when i think of you, words flow out of my mouth like honey, sounds dance on the soft exhale that escapes through parted lips. i dust for i clean for, hoping to find potsherds of memories in the chasms of my (un)consciousness. my feet trace your silhouette as i spin to the music in the room. i don’t even have to try.

for the only thing i’d live for

— is you.

gambling with god

years of visiting your house
you’d serve me, on a coaster, bread and tea
but i had never dared to tell you
i always preferred coffee

even with a stepladder
it wasn’t in my means
to stretch high enough to reach the jar
and swap your tea leaves with beans

after many broken bones and angry bruises
from falling off the steps
i came to accept your stone cold plans
and sipped on bitter tea as i wept

if you say you love me,
then why do you
forsake me?


(today my grandmother asked me why i stopped saying a prayer before i go to bed every night)