humid day i leave
my hair open
to hide you

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones . .

i, for some vague reason like this.

Serendipity .

Old .

I hope I never grow old .

I hope I never have to stare blankly at floor thinking of my better, younger, healthier years.
I hope I will never have to depend on children who will be scornful of my worries, who will even deny my existence at times.
I hope I dont have survive on an endless supply of medicines and worry about my expenses.
I hope I never have to suffer aches and pains in the most embarrassing places and then have to tell the world about it.
I hope I dont turn blind and deaf as the days crawl by and I hope I dont have to confine myself to a single room because i cant move about otherwise.
I hope I will never ask people to hold my hand when I walk because if I dont, I'd fall and I hope I dont have to sit in a corner n cry silent tears because that's all I can do now.
I hope I will never have to sit by and wait for death to come and get me.
I hope I dont have to live alone, thinking of all those places I have been to and then look around and realize, that the four walls of this room, is my world now.
I hope I die when I can still walk about on my own. I hope I die when I can still see, hear and think sanely.

I hope I never grow old.

And I can see the world hanging upside down
Tied to the Earth in the Sky with
A brown strand of my hair
When this city rains . .

:)

3 A.M.

You have been up
half the night already
listening to a man
fighting demons that
he created and fed olives
to, in his own mind.

It is a drunk night
that smells of cheap vodka
and broken dreams. blue
skies with stars that you look
up to, from your gutters.
stars, unreachable.

A night of Cohen, Tagore
Haikus, O' Hara and
tunes unsung, songs
unwritten. captured in
a bottled tucked away
deep in your mind.

A little man weeping
tears of glass from
his eyes that sting of ash,
falling on your hands
that hold his. unwanted,
your heat is, but still.

Your hands start to
scathe and scald
and words form out
of your burnt skin
making their way of
the window.

Out of the window
towards the moon
in dancing shadows
shadows of you
and him, loving.

You drain yourself
of all the words
that were remaining
to be spoken
by that filthy mouth
of yours.

Words he didn't like
words he never liked
words that mocked you
and words that tore
you from your being.

What does it matter.
you never were of much
importance, to begin
with. an unimportant,
lifeless, dreamless,
little woman.