Haiku for Summer

It is the season of summer
my love, and you
are making me sweat.

*

Taking a bite into
the fruits of summer –
my body smells of you.

*

“Look here,” said she
turning away
from me.

*

In your arms,
the summer’s sun,
ceases to set.

*

Call me a bird,
for I nest in
the curls of your hair.

*

The ice melts
in the waves of your body;
I am thirsty.

Unintentional Revisits

Revisiting
the love letters written
on stormy nights —
the heart wild with desire,
maddened by grief.

The halts were many,
but I chose you—
your breasts to rest
my weary head on;
your sea-like mind to afloat
my capsized boat.

It’s winter in these parts,
and I’m cold —
the fire must be lit.

What blazes me is known,
but the walk to it is
long
and
tiresome.

But with a little warmth
of your breath
on my neck,
and a gentle pull of my hand
on your hair which smells
of fenugreek bathed in sandalwood,
I could make the distance.

A Day’s Wait, and More

Waiting for you,
like the wait of an unattended matchbox
in the bathroom stand,
getting drenched with every shower,
never to be picked,
never to be struck;
the matchsticks still intact
inside.

Waiting for you,
like the dry sink,
waits on the bathroom floor,
awaits another trail of water,
dripping from your body,
carrying the taste of nectar
from a flower
which only blooms
on a certain twilight
in spring.

Waiting for you,
like a bear cub’s wait
for his mother,
in the dark, moist den,
somewhere in the hills.
It’s raining –
the rain gods are in for a swim –
and the mother bear
can’t kiss the slippery cliffs,
with the roughness
of her feet.

Waiting for you,
like a freshly knit sweater
waiting for a young one
never to return from his sleep
in the garden graveyard
where he was buried
five months ago –
five months old.

Casual Answers to Casual Questions About Personal Well-being

You ask: what have you been up to?
I have nothing to say.
Things could have been better,
If I was with you, braiding your hair,
or filling my lungs with the sweet scent
that you always carry around you,
or steal your anklets,
hide it, somewhere beyond your reach –
so that you beg, and beg me to fetch them back.
But I would have a bargain set up:
a kiss is what I would ask for,
from those
freshly crafted lips of yours
which whisper to me
in the sweetest of my dreams.

And when you’d finally wear
those anklets in your arms,
I’d write songs for the melody they make
when they clink together by the movement
of your hands as they clasp against mine.

It’s summer
and we have been sweating against each other’s bodies
for days and nights.

Realisations That Strike On a Weekend

Sitting alone in crowded cafes,
walking barefoot on heated surfaces,
chasing the tree’s shade in the sun,
stubbing out the last cigarette,
biting on my overgrown fingernails,
searching my wardrobe for a familiar scent,
saving the last bite from my vanilla cake,
reading out my short stories out loud,
filling up the bitter minutes of traffic jams,
planting flowers, waiting for them to bloom,
waiting for the full moon when it’s new moon,
buying groceries that go stale in my kitchen,
lighting a candle and watching it burn out,

I realise:

I can never think enough of you.

Only you,
everytime,
pass me by,
and neglect my words,
like rose petals
trampled under the feet
of an unaware visitor –
still fresh;
still carrying the moisture
of the morning dew.

Waiting On a Girl

Looking for a girl,
waiting
at the corner of the street –
to say hello, to warmly greet.

I have a cigarette in hand.
Smoking,
I puff out smoke in the warm, evening air.
A cab stops; she gets down; pays her fare.

She wears red heels,
stumbles,
as she walks to the corner shop.
My cigarette burnt, I let it drop.

She is 21,
looks
with the curiosity of a young gazelle;
she leaves me sweating, looking pale.

I have no words for her.
Standing,
I watch her buy a cotton candy.
No whisky tonight, only brandy.

The shopping is done;
packing
her purple bag, she turns around;
hails for a cab; leaves, never to be found.

To follow her home would be
sinning;
So I let her pass by and leave.
Lighting another cigarette, I grieve.