The lover disappears in loving. Then there's only love, not the lover or loved.

Map out my contours,
can you define me?
I'm crimson, starlight,
tears and dusty skies.
Clad in clay maybe,
perhaps, uncertainly.

Every time he cried,
the heart of night splintered
into starlight,
kissing his tear stained face.

It's the dreamers who will save the world, but the dreamers are dying.

Even then you had worn
the mask of night and danced,
high up on that precipice,
and the declining sun would set
beautifully, just for you.

പ്രതീക്ഷിക്കാതെ പെയ്ത ഹേമന്തത്തിൽ പ്രണയത്തിന്റെ അവസാനത്തെ കണവും ഉറഞ്ഞു പോയി

with fire in your eyes
and a carve of wind in your words,
you hear spirits call back and forth
between falling leaves
and all that they burn.

in the afterburn of free will
my broken faces
melt their wings
staring at gold
one feather at a time..

time,you are a wicked mistress.

behind a shade drawn down,
the moon guides my soul into every journey
I am masked with surviving
I am what love used to do when mirrors cried.

I've fallen in love with my 'self' that loves you aesthetically and unconditionally.

my solace is rebellion
crawling faster than light,
pulling back my stain,
skinning night,
lingering somewhere
near the dark edge of never found..

knowing you were here
was enough
for me, for us
then
you took the shears
and cut me out
smeared my poems
across the finish line.

mining the pain to write
writing the memory to forget
as the river of words flow
with the tears that wrote them.

lend me your blue,
so I may hold up half your sky; twilight

a little piece of you
in every word i write.

There is no dancing
even to the music of the seasons,
with a paralyzed Spirit.

You put your hand on the answer
and the question dissolves.

Memories of you cling
like leaves to the wet pavement. Beautiful, persistent..
Until the tears dry
and they are surrendered
to the wind.

Memories of you cling
like leaves to the wet pavement. Beautiful, persistent..
Until the tears dry
and they are surrendered
to the wind.

I made a prism out of smiles and called it poise.

Autumn stands still in the morning trees
in its mind the warning:
all things die.
in its heart the reassurance:
all things are born again.

you walk
into my cage
as if
I just imagined
these bars.

counting time
in breaths
for that touch
scrawled across my mind
leaving me, unwritten.

another wooden bench, where I leave the world behind. Tibetan monks stroll languidly through this walkway.
McLeod Ganj.

Look at my blood flowers

because I write
with a serene sharp blade
that soothes
as much as cuts into the deepest parts of my soul.

with fire in your eyes
and a carve of wind in your words
you hear
spirits call back and forth
between falling leaves
and all
that they burn.

an angel day
spoken spray rakes
what cancers cause a soul's inward turn,
even the longest of
nights cannot consume the
entirety of my shadows.

You're the smell of ink on the pages of an old book.

Mainlining you
eye dropping
every word.

Two big beautiful poems,
your eyes.