woodpeckers

what do a woodpecker, an eskimo, a butterfly, a spiderman, a lizard, a fish, and a mistletoe have in common? only some of the many million ways we had learnt to kiss, our mouths moving in perfect harmony to each other's tunes.
remember how we had perfected the synchronization of such weird eccentric kisses but realized it only several nights later, at 1 in the night, or maybe 2, legs entwined under the blankets, your fingers running through my hair. An eskimo for an eskimo, a butterfly for the butterfly, fish for the fish. we were so perfect it was funny.
"Don't laugh"
"Why not?"
"it's incredibly amazing, most people never get to feel this"
you smiled.
*woodpeckers*

Making love to you was like a local train journey, starting slow, gradually picking speed and suddenly we start leaving everything behind..rickety iron bridges, rivulets, patches of gulmohars, kids playing in the backyard, paddy fields, graffiti walls, dogs chasing, you swerve me in your arms and spin the world around me. Pause. Everything else around is a blur.

it was two in the night and i was inconsolable, heart broken yet again. and then you did the most amazing, the most magical thing.
you made me laugh.
do you still wonder why i love you to the moon and back?

the right wrong person

We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems—the ones that make you truly who you are—that we’re ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: it's got to be the right wrong person—someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, “This is the problem I want to have.”
I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way. ―Andrew Boyd

slumber parties

Its not him.

Maybe its only your desire

to love and be loved.
He's a muse.

Reading copious amounts of poetry is giving you butterflies in the stomach and raising goosebumps on your skin like you’re a teenager all over again.

You try to take your mind off of him, smoking and dancing to the music playing in your head.

You’re nervous and fidgety, constantly jumping and talking nonsensical cutesy stuff because you cannot handle this teenager any longer.

You look at his hands, they’re wanting to be held.

Your toes poke his calf muscles while you sit in a crowded corner of the room.

That’s the most physical contact you are ever going to get with him.

(You think).

You've been told

that if you repeat a word

over and over

it loses its meaning

So you stay up

countless nights

repeating his name

hoping

that he will mean less to you

with each breath.

summer afternoons

if I wrote you a poem
and rode my bike to your house
because I wanted to give it to you
while it was still warm,

would your door be open?

Would you smile for days?

Me: Knock-Knock!

You: Who is it?

Me: To.

You: (paused and smiled) To whom?

And you wondered how I fell in love with you, deeper, every single day.

christmas wasn't merry and new year wouldn't be happy
with you

the art of self deprecation

when i get a compliment, I always turn the cheek, 
batting it away like it doesn't belong to me. 
Over the years I've learnt to feign a thank you on internet and phone 
but if you say it to my face, i just don't hear it

you may think my smile is the cutest, my eyes the brownest  
or even write poems about the curve of my legs or the sculpted shoulders, 
i may not argue but in my heart i would still brush them off as kind yet silly remarks 
silently blaming the lights, makeup or an eye defect

If i assembled a space rocket, i'd say even a child could've done it. 

I'm a mess and will always be.