The week passes with little knowing of my cat growing - sinking her claws into my palms gently than ever - my hand displays the white lines of her scratches on my dry, brown skin. The sunlight peeks in through the door which is left open, awaiting your arrival - but arrives only the sunlight… Continue reading Sat Ur Days
जान जाती है जब आप उठ कर जाते हो, या फिर बस ऐसा लगता है हमें। ये जो जान है वो सिमट कर रह जाती है हमारी मुट्ठी में। इन एहसासों को भर देता एक कटोरे में, और घोल के पी जाता एक प्याले में जिस पर लिखा था आपका नाम कभी। जब आपके रस्ते… Continue reading बिना पेंदे के प्याले
Why is it so that there is such a row over what becomes of us; it sickens my already-pale heart. Must I shut close the chamber which echoes with your thoughts? Time shall pass as it always has been; lean, I am to your much-awaited approaches. What is there to do but to carve my… Continue reading Young; tall; lean.
Not too many people around; not a sound when I think of you. The whirling fan rotates for hours of the midnight - straight while I gaze at your reflection portrayed in the frequently visited corner of my mind. To speak of the heart: a beating device; pump-pump is the sound and round is the… Continue reading Crank Crank Goes The Fan
Lovers in March spent in each other's arms. The Sun glistens the newly-emerged sweat-beads. The cold north Breeze kisses their perspiration dry, and yet they lie with a will to perspire more. Words are not spoken in numbers great, neither of the two fret, but at each other's sealed lips they plant kisses; must their… Continue reading Lovers in March