Red

When the song looms on a repeat tune; the kind that gently hops around the parameter of your heart, so does the aura of him. Red; the color of the show. The essence of time. The feelings at hand.Raw, the smell of meat. His flesh underneath. His open words… wounds.He’s on the highest shelf, never

जूनकिरी, junekiri, June bug, lightning bug, firefly

It’s about everything

It’s not about touching It’s not about listening It’s not about talking It’s not about you and I, buried underneath the ground. It’s about sharing every fiber of my being with you, Immersing in this life together Being stared at Being a part of things Going places, acknowledging each other, Holding hands and facing the

Sinking scent

Your hands Under my hands Your hands on my stomach, waist Your hands, tracing my skin Composing your name Your nose near my neck Sinking, in the scent of an ache

The bloke at the airport

The bloke at the airport. London town, all year around. With heavy London accent and a surprisingly friendly assistance. Took ama across the airport; an old one pushing one older. Tattoos on his arms indicate years of wrong decisions. But this is London town, his home, his land, and his particular accent says it all.

My changing hands

Honey, I don’t know what’s happening to me. My hands are hurting… my fingers, my wrists. I’m afraid I may not be able to hold you. I’m getting older, day by day. In a matter of time I may be lying in bed, unable to move. I’m looking at my aching hands, and even gloves