and who she is not
must also be a part of her

every time, time transcends
deeper into a being she still hasn’t had a conversation with
i mean
a real honest talk

A thick voice
A stern face
small and confident

that is not me
appears out of nowhere

I am always displeased and unsure
happy for no valid reason
sad for no valid reason
She loves strange
because that is the only shaded curtain
she lovesw

The velvet purple that hides my eyes from the world
the anger that i was born with a bespectacled face
doesn’t show
devoid and privileged
happy that I was born exactly the way I was born

anger at wanting to just lie down and sleep
and I’m not even

and I can still hear myself want a break
sleep on cool white linen bed sheets
while the old khaitan fan will turn
with a lovely creaking sound
sorry khaitan I meant USHA
such a lovely name for a fan,
I’d never name my child that
my daughter
If I can have one

hold her tiny fingers
and feel more complete
wishes that stem not from my happiness but borrowed from the other
not as self less as it sounds
it is a selfish self less ness

but i love her voice
her tingly soft cynicism combined
with her unlimited enthusiasm to love

to give
and believe that everything can be fixed
if and only if
it is
to one other than her

A devil
she sometimes she calls herself
as she  slowly and very quickly stirs the coffee


is a restless being
and restless and restless make a lusty little couple
inside there is a rush and outside
it is a shadowy clandestine being
sitting alone and eating
as typically mysterious
as beautiful
as falling into a puddle which is an open drain
not knowing this could have been the end

7 years old
now much older
and still looking for that tiny voice that grows huski-er and deeper with every passing quarter of a day
life’s so meek and so rebelliously insane
there is no end

To the

flute, the ripples of blue and a lover that doesn’t judge
that’s her
7 years old
now much older


One thought on “her

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