bus #45

we catch each other’s eyes
and smile
for the seventeenth time
and I notice
the words stuck in your teeth
they seem to complement
the space around us
as the distance
keeps getting shorter
the days pass

and I find myself
closer to a place
where the smiles
seem to meet
and our bodies
don’t need words to speak.

another abrupt stop
and you spill the words
on the floor
I bend over
to help you pick
and I can’t help
but catch
from the corner of my eye
your phone sticking out
of your pocket –
alive and full of familiarity

you put your earphones in
and disappear.

lunch

people chirp and tweet,
nibble on the lunch-time crumbs–
probing for light among the shadows.

the afternoon sun rests low
on the floating passersby,
tangling
with the resting chairs and tables
on the footsteps of cafes.

our smiles and coupled eyes
hold the time
unlike the time, that holds us
with a promise of fools gold.

we sing, and soar the skies
our feathers leaving no trace:
our brooms sweep the day clean–
as the sun pass on its robe
to the night, I sit under
the twilight of your canvas
and mull over you
unexpectedly.

In the light of a beautiful sunset

in the light of a beautiful sunset
I feel unsettled
the nerves in my feet
are ready to tap the wooden floor beneath me
I am the fog
taking over the light

the disappearing colors
the heavy eyes
and the twirled toes
cursing the lack of heat
it’s all my fault

I slowly wait
as the dusk turns
into a lit landscape of rectangular blinds
and slow pace of moving circles

I wait for you
and so do the circles
for you to come back around
and spend another night
looking at the mist
while your unsettled nerves dance
in the light of a beautiful sunset.

una vetrata

a stained glass
una vetrata
clouds the vision
taking a shelter in
my muddled mind.

I look around
The smell of water
carries itself to the nearest
sign of life
and vanishes into the night.

Why am I here?
As the bell rings
unbothered, by the hour
and the spectators.

A paved turquoise path
leads to the end of
my vision
leaving behind
everything as is
and never the same.

current mood.

Speechless travelers!

What wise wisdom we soak from your depths of experience!

You open the skies for us as we marvel in your no filter destinations.
You show us what it means to live as our eyes gleam with your tagged endorsements.
I have some dollars for travel, but not with sails and propulsion.

We are grateful you open the doors of your tales to our mundane being in these prisons.
Stars and skies have not looked the same since.

In fact, you’ve never seen them, have you?

Speak up, what have you actually seen?!

Oh wait..

three photographs.

“There is nothing wrong in deriving your work from someone else’s life.”

He told her, and paused.

The fresh rays were entering the room draped with dark velvet cloth that blended in with the furniture, but not for long. Each deflection exposed a corner, and the lines on his forehead.

To call out someone isn’t forgiving, but to honestly critique someone is even worse.

His dark, wavy hair took the spotlight while his surroundings were busy absorbing the nature’s glimmer.

He looked away from her, his eyes half closed focused on the wooden floor. The crouched back gave his tie some freedom to breathe over his immaculate blue shirt. She could sense the room getting brighter, but her eyes weren’t ready for it, yet. What could she possibly do more to express herself in her art, even if her creation was an extension of someone else’s life?

He looked towards the window and let out the smoke he’d been holding back. It threw the light of its path and distracted the peace of the velvet drapes.

“You’re starting out.”

He pointed his cigarette at her. There was an amiable smile between his thick mustache and beard.

“Your friend who you are borrowing from is good with colors, but if you want to master the lines, study Picasso.”

She was still looking at him when her lips opened up a little bit, to pour out a critique of their own, but she ended up looking away.

a poetic vapour

my solitude increases
as the barriers to enter
the rest of the world rise.

at last!

it’s late and only the music
of a numb voice screeches on.
I sit down firmly, in silence
my nerves kiss my toes and fingertips.
for few hours, I’ll exist
without a face
in a bath of waves.
everything around me, becomes me
just to live in these words.
how it is, becomes irrelevant.
what it is, at this moment
is what there is.
my memories can only chase shadows.

discontented, I drink another glass
and look for refunds.
I would gladly accept a new manuscript
and ease under the sheets
in the whispering silence of the dark.

an attempt at a good verse
an attempt to separate myself
from those whom I despise.

a poetic vapour.

at last.

countdown.

ten

life swarms with innocent eyes
its one true charm is strangeness,
the eyes that aren’t mine

nine

you can close your eyes and hear nothing
but the influence in the conversations.
even the air can’t detach itself from it.

eight

laughter becomes a necessary ingredient.
suffering is a forgotten memory.
we fall in each other’s arms.

seven

our feet start their own beat.
our ears cultivate the music
with pleasure and vulnerability.

six

we stroll with our eyes wide open.
the stars hide in the night sky, afraid
of being outnumbered.

five

you and I, we extract the
eternal from the ephermal, as we
measure the streets with our footsteps.

four

your gaze is a desire, desired by many.
for only few the stars align so they can die
beneath it.

three

you have inspired, and conquered.
now take your pleasure.

two

I look around with my naive eyes.
I see a cemetery of life
under the moon unblessed.

one

you walk on the corpses,
beautiful and undismayed.
I feel, if even for a second, the infinity of delight.
all of it, the sum of a multitude of delights.

happiness.

dead leaves and colorful hearts.

The colder shadows hide fast
steel fence shell shocked with a sudden grief
footsteps creep as they walk past
the court that’s a victim of, a summer brief.

Shaking, I seek out the ebbing cries
from the mouths that look like arched rocks
weary, to sleep, even to their surprise
their beating hearts no more than a red, frozen block.

The funeral of the season is upon us
dead leaves open their arms to greet
the lovers, wrap them around the colors and hide
the yesterday’s summer from my plain sight

just a constant change, never a goodbye.

strange smiles.

busy life flashes by
blurred people on the sidewalks
dazzling, blinding, in the sun
almost an unfamiliar setting.

brisk walkers, ice creams
in hand. arms across each other’s
necks. hands holding up
phones, focus on what’s
relevant. specks of colors –
alive, loving, and desolate.

the city breathes in its
own painting
as I jump on the next
stroke and catch
some of its leftover paint.

I keep walking
taking joy
in unapproved glances
and strange smiles.