“Trust me, please?”
she says, sprinkling in yearning with a fine hand.
He likes it mildly flavoured, not heavily spiced.
“I trust you implicitly”
he replies.
And she wonders why that hurts worse. Hints over words.
The heart, a little glass charm, strung up inside a body of dust.
It scratches, chips, it even crumbles but it never gets tougher.
*Read my other Love Poetry. Or listen to it.
I’ve thought and thought about how and what to do with this post. I actually have another draft but it doesn’t feel right. So I’ll do what I’ve always done with this blog – be honest. The dilemma is something I did figure would come up someday, in fact I…
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I found this piece I wrote dated 20 February 2002. I was doodling about inspiration in the back bench of a classroom.
If I had to write a book on ‘Things that they never told me about in b-school”, it would run into volumes that no one would read. I suspect that a lot of these things that ‘they never tell us about’ are not meant to be known to us at…
I sat on the grass for a long time. It felt like it, as I breathed every second that passed. The grass felt comfortable under my butt and thighs. Like a carpet? No, I’m a Mumbai girl, I’m not used to carpets. The park is full of little mounds and…
