Can you still hear me?

If I could reach out to you
Through the crisscrossing noise
Of the crushing static undertones

You would hear your name
Read out aloud
In every prayer I let out

Into this now empty universe.

You are in the crackling
And the sputtering
Of breeze stricken diyas
From all Diwalis past

You are in the daily din of life
That is walking by
Without looking back at the souls
Stranded on cobblestone pavements
And left behind in time.

If I could reach out to you
Through the dense fog
Of distant minds and angry hearts
You would hear my heart beat
With the same erratic thump
That you left behind.

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Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.

Spiral

Come Let us slice into each other With fine surgical precision You slash me here I slash you there And then When the storm is done I will patch you up And you tuck me up You bring the bucket I the mop the blood And together we will cleanse Our ancient hurts Our guilts And our fears Until we start again And over a cup of coffee You tell me My dear Just how much you love me And I shall tell you Just how much I love you.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.

Works of RK

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