You threw me

In so deep, I'm struck mute. Wanting nothing. But Desire lit; now keener than a toothache. But desiring no more than that (not even) twelve-hour old smile, like a lamb but for the glint. Coarse, you. And beautiful like a stab, like a gasp. Like a singeing bay leaf, like the throb of vein on a straining forearm, like the smell of moss on a (just rained on) roof. You'll never read this and it's so ridiculous to strike off a month this deathly way, (and for what?) for a glint, a smile not twelve hours old yet.

There is a story to be told, but that must wait. There is your memory to fade, but for now, inane insane must do. Not that you'll know but you throw me back to first loves - इस बहाने अब मेरा चाँद होके नूर आए  - you threw me in, I forgot to breathe and it's so ridiculous because look, thirteen. Thank you thank you thank you (:

unavoidable.

Never rebel (no, please) - but must one not shrink, shrivel when everything is Superliked? Never misanthrope (peripheral babble is almost endearing) - but before bed, must one not ask, Where to now? Bile in mouth not so much because you don't see - but because (to think) I once thought you would. When you're your biggest disappointment, how to get erasure? When you're throwing up chillies and what were cashew nuts (mostly through nose), how to stop from hitting floor? The abiding thought - that seesaw of oneness (your breath smells of mine, I smile) versus that ache in bones, weighing every step down, muttering like a dammed sea of voices, O My People - is only biding time.

Someone's counting down somewhere, but meanwhile?, one could (with groan and creak and lumberjack pant) turn to resurrecting the premature dead and burying, and burying those who just won't. Worth a shot, the gun's gone cold after the world got- Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaye to kya hai? Question is kya rooh pyaasi hi reh jayegi?

O People.

a brief meditation on the concerns that crowd hours of alleged study

It's called Bitch I know but the more I see of you the faster I recoil. Overwhelming gratitude at having fled while there was time. Internal Assessments have a nonpareil way of skewing schedules and priorities and making dust of mountains. You who were frightened of what would have been at Sixty-Four, can you see tomorrow? Too much solipsistic, this. I suppose because this is the Sorting after whole days of Picking. Besides, metonymy, dears. When I inspect my fingernail, it is in troth the landscape of your mind I ponder.

Now be nice and say Hell-oh.

the sky could be blue, i don't mind

What storm today. Grit and garbage cartwheeling, coming at teeth like missiles - but the wind outdoes, who cares? And I was clucking tongue, sigh, just the perfect day for long, long bus-ride and longer walk to end in hot tea and fried chicken, with your stories, but you haven't been writing so long. Everything else came. And like the gust, you did too.

Tonight's almost too beautiful to be borne.