just another silly love song

I miss your voice in the still mornings.

There was a melancholy entwined with our arms and my dry lipstick rubbed off on your discoloured white cardigan.
I miss the way the weak gold of the morning shimmered through the slit in the curtains in the wisps of sandal incense.

Your voice sits in the thick green of the curtain cloth, and as you whispered I kept my eyes on the way nothing could breach it.

I cannot remember what your face looked like.
I remember you from the spots in the house, where the afternoon made the table a sullen brown, and how our feet shuffled noisily in the terrace. We needed jackets and soft blankets with our coffee mugs as we watched the sun slowly rise in the dampness.

I miss the comfort that came in the cold midnight.

There was a blue fog that never went, and I miss it as I miss your bleached hair and freckled skin, the curve of your eyes which my fingers know by heart.

(We made love in front of the gods as if we could and didn’t care for what they thought, they couldn’t be heard as we walked, background noise muffled and muted. Only the green of palm and vines on the buildings seemed alive, and shyly the yellow rose around the block in a happy film.)

We never had a car, but I remember the both of us sat in one. You were singing your heart out and your eyes were pressed when you hit the high note. We went nowhere but wherever you sang us to, the windows hazed and the blue paint silvered. Your hand was in mine but I felt nothing.

(I felt an ecstacy and a joy but even today all of it feels like you were a ghost, and I am holding onto wisps of nothing.)

I miss the old peach and white bed-cover we used to have, and how your mother hated it.



We were sad, but we were happy enough to put up with it, and now in this loneliness in the summer with all the sun for our skin to soak, you are not here, only the cold.


This summer is insipid.


You never left- you faded away as winter turned to spring and the mornings grew so bright it blinded me and I could not see you any further. You faded as the sun came and only the stars can speak of what we were.



The synthesizer hums behind us, somewhere in the calendar when we first met. You’re gone but the keys still play at the small of my back, a place that is still safe.
I miss December, but I know now that every December  will be our December with every new calendar I buy.

So for you I write love songs, but my voice breaks and the words die in the wetness on my cheeks-



I decide to pause the recording because it is half past midnight and this grief for tonight has been appeased enough.

(Tonight the moon will rise again.)



via Daily Prompt: Moody

There’s something horribly melancholy about your face. You’re meant to be painted in pastel shades in dull light and framed in wide screens of rolled film, stacked in shoe boxes in the attic for ‘later use’.
You’d know that doesn’t really make sense but hell, you’re not real and I’m not as great as I think I am. For now it’s okay that you’re only the ghost of contentment and the temptation of comfort that seeps like a mist through what the reality is, scattered on my desk.
You’re forever pulling me with an arm around my waist, away from the real world while I desperately cling to the table, knuckles bruised from rubbing against the wood for too long. Sometimes, you win and the chair falls back with a snap, and I resign myself for wherever you take me. I lose hours. When I’m back, the sharp stabs of an insatiable want for just a little bit more of you constantly nags at me and pulls my hair until I’ve done enough to buy me another day.

There should be a passionate goddamn it in there somewhere, I think.

It’s a bit silly that I write of winter hurting me when cities are burning, so I’ll stop here.





I may never be great, but I want to be good.

Standard Archive Warnings Apply

Autumn is waking up to days as dark as nights,  constant in the white light pouring out onto your face beneath the thickest blankets you’re allowed to use. Alexa chung is leaning into Mr. Music Director, bundling up his boyfriends hoodie in her arms, begging for stories titled in lower case and a kudos count of 379. Head girl and Vice Head girl drop a new single from the sidelines of the bus yard, featuring a boyfriend and tiny waists, awaiting an encore with ‘welcome your assistant directors of the UNODA, Harvard MUN India 2016.” Or that’s how you think it went because you weren’t actually there with the heavyweights.  You were sat with your formals in its box and brain in its shell, resting flat on open books that read nothing and an ache that screamed, “you never really tried because you didn’t want to accept you aren’t worth it.”

Select, delete.
Too conspicuous, it needs more drowning in seas and fire in your wings. Your audience is a tide of blank faces safe to show, while the voices in the next room mean you can’t be taller, clothed in slim fit black jeans and a leather jacket hanging off high shoulders. Autumn is a realm of new found hallyu, taking you to intended lower case on AO3 and reminders of your inadequacy,  but you cant trust it, of course. Its okay, because you manage to live through it till October comes, autumn turning its back on you without a second glance, leaving with the mists of the retreating monsoon.
Autumn leaves behind nights of soft Hindustani in your headphones, a disappointing lull under orange light as you watched the last rains fall from your corner of the veranda and unfinished writing scrawled on loose sheets, stuffed into the table drawer and locked for when Spring comes.