Who Am I..

I am a small replica.
Speak to me of you..
Of you; I am little you.
Tell me about her.
I am past you.

Can you heed our future?
Ask me; I can.
Read it in these very eyes.

They see right ahead..
Storms that yesterday has fed–
Gusts to which these feet have led.
Our cuts bled.
And my hopes have long fled.

They once gaped.
And I, too, many a time asked..
But I saw her.
And I saw me.
It is bursting, immaculate beauty!
That my hands radiate.
Why hold in while..
There is so much of it within?

Look at me.
Can you see you in me?
I am little you.
But one that you put you into.
… I love you.


Photo Cred: Wally.



She suffocated.
Her cheeks were a dreary waterfall.
She sat there on the floor,
looking blankly at the dark,
crawling per the window.
She was drowning in the sea of her crumpling reveries.
Aback, her eyes glared;
she stopped,
her chest heaving.
And it hit her,
right then;
papers were never a good listener.


Photo Credit: Wally.

It Will Have Been Too Late..

He got there. He could still remember the house. Chairs were put outside for men to sit by the tent.

He rushed inside.

Everyone stared at him.

And how could they not stare at him. He was a mess. A confused, excruciated, distraught mess.

He hurriedly got in, looking for her sister. And, after wandering for a moment, he spotted her sitting somewhere, alone, dumbstruck, looking into the void, her baby in her arms, but it was as though she couldn’t afford to carry him. She looked up at him; she was awaiting his coming. They locked eyes, and his were swollen; he was almost unrecognizable. But then, everyone was.

He rose his hand, as though leaning on a wall. Then he looked around, then back at her. He was crying now. “Where is–where is she”. It was a muffled whisper; he was sobbing, but she wondered whether he really wanted to see her–whether he could see her.

She waited.

“Please… just… ” His eyes were pleading. And he spoke in bits. But, somehow, he was frantic; he looked frail–so, so frail.

“I want to see her,” he finally affirmed.

She slowly got up, tears running down her cheeks. And she led the way. Stumbling up, they got to the room. She opened the door, let him in and left. He was bent, and he sought support in the door handle for a moment, then entered.

Her body lay right there, on a mattress, put in the middle of the room. The room was empty; everything echoed.

Her skin was pale, so pale she looked ember. She was covered in white. Her eyes were shut, and they tied her chin with a cloth to keep her mouth closed.

He looked up, and the view of her struck him. He clumsily advanced the body and knelt down.

He cried and cried till he could no longer breathe. He kept looking at her, and, then, squeezing his eyes shut, bit his fist to deaden his loud, uncontainable sobs; they rang like knives through his heart.

He reached out but could not touch her, as if she were carrying an ailment. His hands kept wavering above her face.

“Why,” he said, gasping for air.


I smiled as my pillows dampened underneath my cheek. I put down the phone beside me and turned around. I closed my eyes, staring at my own darkness to sleep.

“It would have been too late,” I whispered to it.


Photo Cred: Wally

Love Letter..

Love letters to the beloved

Unleashed, untold, unspoken, befolded

Love letters haunt

Love letters, they may feel

One day, they shall heal

Love letters to the dear

To the heart, they are near

Love letters heave

Love letters–to the walls

Never will they be false

Love letters to the eye

With every breath, will it try

Love letters hole

Love letters, they would dye

Always for the soul they shall vie.


Photo Credit: Wally.