I emerge from the tunnels

of your relentless tenderness

of two half-nights and a single evening

to find the red sea at dawn,

dawning on me like some forgotten dream.

Unreal sand. White waves beating

into whiteness and

your animal sex, sandy hair 

on wooden floor and 

the nocturnal sparrow outside my window- alarmed. 

I can tell you throw around 

your love. The world

and its many-winged

wildernesses spring from your eyes like

sequined stars. You mean it too much and

forget it too soon while I

haven’t washed the bedsheets yet

because the pillows smell of you. 

Anticipating unquiet, watery days

spread-eagled in space

I must now wonder, yet again,

where previously preserved parts of me

are now wandering

while you land at various shores

unscathed but moved,

with only the moon on your back.  

This one was long due. It was also extremely long. But great, nonetheless.

Haven’t ever felt so strongly about a man. Not ever!  

It’s not your freckled skin

your perpetually half-naked body

your deep-fried sandwiches

or your queen-sized, rasta-coloured bed.

It’s definitely not your foot massages.

Or back massages or the never-ending parlor tricks

(that are nonetheless, very entertaining)

or the black bike you ride around, with blue lights

that light up the inside. 

It’s just that I can hear the sound of the sea

from your window

the dark city, cool salty breeze, water 

breaking on sand

And then I’m tempted to stay over.

But I don’t. I don’t. 

(Because I love somebody else, etc)

This whiskey-induced softening of heart strings

will be good for no one. 

I hope my future looks like this. 

Who is the mother of the sun?

Drums and seed pods and photosynthesis

and water and sleep and coffee and

plug-points and human voices and leaf-sounds

and endorphins and cumulonimbus and

statistics.

And writing poetry to synthesized music

late at night, there is a myna outside my window.

The boundary between life and life and life

constantly diminishing, then being forgotten.

What boundary, though? 

What Lakshman-rekha? What nothing-line? 

The mother of the sun

the father of the moth-eaten moon

your blood, his veins, her heart.

All our water, all its fish, all the sand

that has come from the mountains.

All of it.

All of it held by nothing, composed of everything,

moving like cigarette smoke through the air.

Oh hey Mr Stranger with the biceps over there

Please may I be included in that muscular affair?

That actin and myosin are so beautifully aligned

If you were a fish, you’d be next-level streamlined.

You lift a book, you pick up a glass 

You dance with those arms all through class.

If I could surf I’d ask to misbehave

On those magically unreal muscular waves. 

Frequent reader of thoughts, you

told me today- “I know you too well”

I’d always suspected this. 

Oftentimes, I’d seen tiny tendrils spiralling

out of your fingernails 

and into mine.

“We’re split into two”, you’d said sadly

looking deep into the sea.

The wind was raw, the earth itself

bleeding from being discovered. 

A single wave crashed into the receding night. 

I suppose you didn’t see me hold your hand.

Your fingernails were bright in my palm, 

five opalescent shells in the moonlight. 

I would let you go, if it wasn’t for your infinite eyes.

I knew I would run out of myself,

but aren’t your eyes enough for the both of us? 

I am totally tired of searching for inspiration, making plans, smoking too much, the waning moon, the start of rain, television serials, the same people, men and boys and girls, my running shoes, doing suryanamaskar, panties being jumbled with tshirts, my rusted guitar strings, juniors from college, the front page of the hindu, the whole of the hindu, not being in love, being too much in love, the whole fucking idea of love, text messages, the christmas tree that hasn’t been pulled down yet, herbal toothpaste.