Memories
Memories.
His,
thunder through her mind
just like his footsteps
when she was asleep.Hers,
splash onto his eyes,
making them water.
Memories.
His,
thunder through her mind
just like his footsteps
when she was asleep.Hers,
splash onto his eyes,
making them water.
I had an interesting set of gifts on my twenty-first birthday.
Two poems and some insights through the breathing. The poems are called ‘Patchwork Relationship’ and ‘Wrong Time’
A short tale in 55 words. Her parents say that she was born talking. Then she discovered writingEnglish grammar compositionsStories and poetryLetters and emailsChats and instant messagingSMSes, Orkut scrapsResumes and reports Then she stumbled onto bloggingAnd anonymous postingEven editing and deletingAnd much later, private publishing But silence is yet to…
That’s the time it takes to go from peaceful to peaceable.
September will come.
You wouldn’t recognise desirein the emptiness in your mouthmaking way for wordsthat your stomach is already breaking down You wouldn’t know desire if it licked youYou think it’s meant to kick & clawNot snuggle between your cellsBreathing the quiet places between people You wouldn’t trust desireEven if you laid bare…
Eight years after hearing about it for the first time, I finally watched The Vagina Monologues. Wish me a happy birthday since I’m being reborn. On second thoughts, don’t say a word. Just listen as we speak – my vagina and I.