Monday, 22 April 2013


The raindrops cling on to window-sills and door-frames, like reluctant lovers when it's time to go. A reluctant me and a reluctant you. Holding on, pulling, inhaling. Storing up the sight and scent and taste of each other till the next time we meet. Allowing our lips to brush once more, maybe twice more. How do I stop myself from touching your face, your hair, your arms? How do I tear my gaze from yours? Tear. Like ripping, the brutal sound of separation. Later, we can sew it back, good as new. But what of now? Now. Now. Now. I want you now. I don't want to let go. I want to be closer. Bodies pressed together. Closer. Whispering into your mouth. Closer. 

The drops fall- running down the length of the window, like my tongue- running down the length of you. Time ticks by, as do our hearts. My cold hands are glues to your warm skin, and either you cool down or I heat up, but what I know for sure is that we now feel One. But the clock keeps going, faster and faster, and you tear yourself from my hold. Tear. Like ripping, the brutal sound of separation. Sticks and stones can break my bones, but true love can rip souls. It can also heal them, you remind me, sew them back, good as new.

Monday, 8 April 2013

Lovers' Weather

I haven't written in a while, but it's raining, and there's a thunderstorm, and this kind of weather always inspires me to write. I call it poets' weather. Or artists' weather. Or lovers' weather. It's when the rain-kissed earth gives off a rich, steamy, familiar smell, and it reminds me of lying with him under a blanket, pressing my face to his broad back. I can feel both my cool cheek and his warm skin, as though they are fused together. Inseparable. And when he falls asleep next to me, I look at him. Sleep makes him look so fragile, so breakable. And I vow to never let him be broken. It's not always about how he loves me, I realise that now. How do I love him? Fiercely. Passionately. Softly. Wholly. And as I hold him together, I marvel at his perfection. He is beautiful. And he is mine. I pray to God that I can always say this with the utmost confidence. He is mine. I run my fingers along the ridge of his nose, playing with the soft dip it forms just between his eyes. A perfect place for my lips. His skin is hot under my tongue and he tries to wake up, but his eyes are glued shut with exhaustion and tranquility. "I feel calmer around you," he once said, and I believe him because I know the serenity he brings with himself whenever he comes to see me. I push his hair off his forehead but the curls fall back, not into place, but still perfect. Occasionally, he snores, and I hold him tighter, afraid that my smile is too loud and would wake him. Afterwards, my skin smells of him. Like the earth smells of rain.

Saturday, 23 February 2013


"What's he like?" they ask.
Like nothing else. Like everything. Like my heart.
How can I reduce you to a description?
Do I tell them the sound of your voice?
The depth of it, the textures of it, the familiarity of it?
Do I tell them the taste of your skin?
The curve of your neck? The angle of your shoulders?
Do I talk about burying my face in your hair
that one time you slept on my shoulder, and how I
held you tightly so the jerky car ride wouldn't wake you?
Or do I tell them about lying with my head in your lap
looking up at you despite the sunlight in my eyes,
unable to tear my gaze from yours, wondering whether or not
to whisper the daring words for the first time?
And what of the words you whisper into my hair as you envelop
me in your warmth? How can I let my mouth form those words
without explaining the movement of your larynx
or the rhythm of your breathing?
Should I describe your laugh, and the myriad of memories
I associate with it, and all the aspirations and hopes I have pinned to it?
Do I talk about your eyes and the way they rest on me, and how
I can never dream of giving up being looked at like that?
They will never know any of this, this is mine to hold in my soul
and in my arms forever.
You bring out the best in me, but also my most selfish bits
that could never imagine allowing anyone else to see you through my eyes,
for who can stop themselves from loving you?
"What's he like?" they ask.
"He's really funny!" is all I say/

Friday, 18 January 2013


I don't always remember to tell you
just how much you mean to me.
But one does not always remember to thank
the air for keeping us alive.

Saturday, 5 January 2013

Andrea Gibson - She always manages to take my breath away.

I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through. Tell me what the word “home” means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mother's name just by the way you describe your bed room when you were 8. See, I wanna know the first time you felt the weight of hate and if that day still trembles beneath your bones. Do you prefer to play in puddles of rain or bounce in the bellies of snow? And if you were to build a snowman, would you rip two branches from a tree to build your snowman arms? Or would you leave the snowman armless for the sake of being harmless to the tree? And if you would, would you notice how that tree weeps for you because your snowman has no arms to hug you every time you kiss him on the cheek? Do you kiss your friends on the cheek? Do you sleep beside them when they’re sad, even if it makes your lover mad? Do you think that anger is a sincere emotion or just the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain? See, I wanna know what you think of your first name. And if you often lie awake at night and imagine your mothers joy when she spoke it for the very first time. I want you tell me all the ways you’ve been unkind. Tell me all the ways you’ve been cruel. Tell me—knowing I often picture Gandhi at ten years old beating up little boys at school. If you were walking by a chemical plant, where smoke stacks were filling the sky with dark, black clouds, would you holler, “Poison! Poison! Poison!” really loud or would you whisper, “That cloud looks like a fish, and that cloud looks like a fairy”? Do you believe that Mary was really a virgin? Do you believe that Moses really parted the sea? And if you don’t believe in miracles, tell me, how would you explain the miracle of my life to me? See, I wanna know if you believe in any god, or if you believe in many gods. Or better yet, what gods believe in you. And for all the times you’ve knelt before the temple of yourself, have the prayers you’ve asked come true? And if they didn’t did you feel denied? And if you felt denied, denied by who? I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling good. I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling bad. I wanna know the first person who ever taught you your beauty could ever be reflected on a lousy piece of glass. If you ever reach enlightenment, will you remember how to laugh? Have you ever been a song? Would you think less of me if I told you I have lived my entire life a little off key and I’m not nearly as smart as my poetry I've just plagiarized the thoughts of the people around me who have learned the wisdom of silence. Do you believe that concrete perpetuates violence? And if you do I want you to tell me of a meadow where my skateboard will soar. See, I wanna know more than what you do for a living. I wanna know how much of your life you spend just giving. And if you love yourself enough to also receive sometimes. I wanna know if you bleed sometimes through other people’s wounds. And if you dream sometimes that this life is just a balloon that if you wanted to you could pop—but you never would because you’d never want it to stop. If a tree fell in the forest, and you were the only one there to hear it, if its fall to the ground didn’t make a sound, would you panic in fear that you didn’t exist or would you bask in the bliss of your nothingness? And lastly, let me ask you this: if you and I went for a walk, and the entire walk we didn’t talk, do you think eventually we’d kiss? No wait. That’s askin’ too much—after all, this is only our first date.

Tuesday, 1 January 2013


Let me memorise your heartbeat
while you breathe me in,
The boundaries of where we begin and end
have blurred and overlapped,
Your heart pumps blood into my arteries
and your veins carry my secrets back to you.