The Grimoire



Stranger Things.

Our hands they went
fast and slow
here and there,
explaining our ridges
in the joining of our bodies
Our contours, changing with each other.

Carving letters into our skin
changing our stories in incomplete ways
We will never be the same again
my subconscious tries to gather
strands of sanity
that are clinging too far away
for me to really care.

Time was timeless
and shapes, shapeless
words appeared out of o’s of lips
bursting out and flying of in the
overflow of these feelings.

Lights have danced in darker places before, baby..
and candles have flickered in dangers worse than this
but looking into those bottomless eyes
in the enclosure made by our curved bodies
I was enfolded in the embrace of my nightmares
loving it till it spread it’s wings and then,
You seemed to be the daemon burst out of my sins.


Stranger things have happened,

than you and me
falling out of love..
But in the tragedy of it,
That seems to be the strangest of all. 


Featured image is by Space Ink via Tumbler.


‘So you wanted me to be honest. Did you think you could handle it? Every single excruciating detail from every single day of our lives. It is believed that the average human being thinks around 600 thoughts per second. Do you think you can handle them all, each one of them waving their red and green banners in a cacophony of opposites, an amalgam of contradictions? Did you think that I entertained only one kind of thought? I can assure you that I’ve had the kind thoughts which would please you on any given day and I’ve had those, you’re afraid I might be having. Do you think you could bear acquainting yourself with all the filthy, nasty, self-deprecating doubts that you have for yourself reflected all over my thoughts?

You wanted to know why I went away. You thought I could not love you, for if I had, I would have stayed. Don’t you think it’s easier for you to think this way? Is it easier that you hate me? Hatred is a comfort when you have no answer. But what if you knew that I did love you. What then? Perhaps you would not be able to hate me anymore. Perhaps you would be left grappling in the dark for answers that suddenly went poof into the emptiness.

My demons, they will become yours, battling with you with all the fears that you so successfully keep at bay.

They will take my form and seduce you and then leave you in the dust and you will feel such a resentment towards me, you will shake and shiver in your revulsion. Do you want that? Will that be better than this impasse we have reached, this reality we have paused at, this distance we have adopted to keep our characters intact? Maybe, maybe not. But the question remains, do you still want me to be honest?


I write about you.

All the time.

In every one of my poems and stories and ramblings you will find hints leading you one step up the ladder into the shadowy, hazy, illusional space I call my mind. Some of the hints are brazen, when I am feeling bold. Some of them are more subtle because I do not want the world to know of my infatuation with you. I can still have a perfectly lucid conversation with you in my head, the way that we used to talk, never coming to any concrete conclusion, living life as if we were two binary stars revolving around each other, never to meet, till one day, we will maybe collapse into a blackhole in which we incinerate ourselves. Our truth was made up of a tapestry of lies, deftly spun into words and conversations and late-night-outs lying on the grass, we were clever enough never to reveal who we are, who we were.

For what is the use of talking about tangibility, when we had all the abstract to ourselves?

Our world was not confined to the boundaries of what we could see and touch, no, we went beyond it, we played around with what was and what could have been. Time was immaterial when we were together, it seemed to just hang in the air in front of us, like a cobweb which seems wispy enough to fly away if you blow ever so slightly. When I was with you, I was a physicist who saw great wonders and who discovered the meaning behind space and time during our conversations because; what is space and time if not relative?

I knew. And you understood. And that was my truth.

Through the cobweb, we could still see “outside”, where the world was flowing on without us, never once did it cross our minds that we might want to become a part of it.

I still write about you. It has been ten years and nine days and I am counting from the time we have not spoken. In my mind, I see the bench where we used to sit, looking at each other with sparkling eyes. The way, we used to hum certain tunes, sometimes, your fingers playing an invisible piano whilst I sat on the floor and made up melodies. In my minds eye, I see the water flowing away in front of us while we talked about words and dreams and boats and love.

I still write about you. I was foolish enough to think that the present will extend to the future, if only we just stood still, if only we did not ‘spook’ time. But fate, if only we can call the passage of time that, had other plans, which it whispered in your ears whilst I was looking away and just like that, when I turned back, you were gone. Gone were the conversations, gone was the bench, gone was the music and gone were your eyes. All that was left behind was the cobweb while I was expelled out on to the other side.

Now, sometimes, when I am falling asleep, in that state between sleep and dreaming, I go and stand in front of the cobweb and try to look through it to see you again.

(This post has been first accepted and published in a medium publication “The Coffeelicious“.)

She Was Weird.

She was weird.

Certifiably weird.

I mean, who else says that she has fallen in love with “blue”? Or the number eight? Or a tree? That the universe speaks to her when its raining.

Storms. She used to love storms. Wild heavy storms which made a lot of noise and lightning. She used to say that the rain was like a curtain around her house which cocoons her and the day it stormed, she would sleep like a baby knowing that she was safe.

She was curious too. She always said “Curiosity killed the cat and I am that cat!” and then laughed her deep heartfelt laughter. There were days when her eyes would be dead and her lips would not smile and she would hear what you said but seem like she is a thousand miles away. Her hair, to her, on those days, always seemed lank and she would look like a painting stripped of color but resplendent in black and white. Her head would nod, but through her eyes, you could see her in some parallel universe crunching some impossible problem.

And hell yeah! It was difficult to love her, it was difficult to live with her but god! was it impossible to leave her! She was like a drug whom I kept craving more and more knowing that I will impossibly waste away while she lives her life in her fantasy land.

But then there would be days when she would say that her head is blank and that she has nothing deep to ponder upon and wonder whether she is becoming an airhead who has no troubles in life or whether she is turning into someone who cares for nothing. But those would be the happiest days for me. Little things would make her smile brightly, a slight wind ruffling her hair would make her laugh and clap her hands, her twinkling eyes and undying energy would be contagious and I would be swept along with her to some universe in which I was floating on a cotton candy.

Dusty books, old letters, ancient broken trinkets, silent movies and children’s smiles: those were her salvation. She would pour her heart out in a diary writing abstract-nothings day in and day out and would keep it out in the open. I would take a peek in it to try to understand her soul but to me it seemed that she wrote nothing of substance. The pages would be filled with blue ink in that slanting beautiful handwriting that I had gotten used to seeing on grocery lists but the diary was, as if, telling the story of someone else. She smiled and never cried while the pages of the diary: they never seemed to know a cloudless day.

But maybe, she cried her tears in ink.

Sadness-anger-hope, they formed an impossible cycle for the rebel inside and she would shake and rage and cry herself to sleep only to wake up in the middle of the night in a fit of hope to write a solution which came to her in the serendipity of dreams. A sad smile, a brimming eye, a begging hand, they touched her heart in such ways that they left a gaping hole and she would agonize over the fate of the world. At that time, her blazing eyes could set an ocean on fire.

And I was left wondering whether she was “storm wrapped in a skin for hire!”.

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