I saw your eyes tumble

over the curve of her throat

and skitter onto the ground-

hastily, blindly;

And it was agonizing,

like watching a flawless crystal

shattering into

countless writhing pieces



Every year, December

brings along with it,

a lot more snow than

I can handle,

along with enough memories

(of you in knitted sweaters,

your clear eyes through fogged up specs.

You, leaning in to spell

‘Finifugal’ in scrabble tiles,

your gaze burning holes on my face;

you, sprawled on the sofa,

You, everywhere)

to make me want to bury myself into it.


Sometimes, writing is

Floating on still water,

Eyes closed, waiting

For the waves to crash onto you.

It is

Standing on the highest branch

Hands outstretched

And reaching for a star.

Sometimes, writing is

The numbness you feel

As you gaze at a bleeding wound.

It is

A knife, poised

At the edge of your temple;

That phantom you kept noticing

Out of the corner of your eye,

But vanished

Just as you turned around.

Or maybe, it’s just

Staring at a blank page

And feeling like your brain

Is looking at the mirror.

But sometimes, when you’re lucky,

Writing can be

Jumping on puddles

And grey clouds at the end of sultry days,

It can be

Kisses burning a trail across your cheek.

Or green eyes behind ink-smudged spectacles.

Or maybe, it can be

The ability to

String the most beautiful words together

In the most beautiful ways,

And the relief when you hear

The last piece of the puzzle

Clicking into place.






She asked me to write about rain

She asked me to write about rain

And the darkness that left us stumbling

(Us who took light and warmth for granted)

This darkness concealed our strongest

But left the bravest out in the open.


She asked me to write about rain

About the terror of waking up at the dead of the night

To the jarring squeal of an ambulance

The pain of seeing a fully-grown dog

Trying to stay afloat in the murky water

The dread of finding a slithering something

On the bathroom floor

The irony of having nothing to drink

When all you can see around you is water.


She asked me to write about rain

And the whip-like deluge which crashed through

Every wall we built, in the hope

That it would stand

Even when unity didn’t.

About nature’s tears

That cleaned long-polluted rivers

But left the streets stinking.


She asked me to write about rain

And the fact that all it took was some water

To make us see everything a bit more clearly

About the petrifying fear which was replaced by

A fierce, animal surge of anger, a sudden fervor,

The need to fight back, the defensiveness,

Because really,

Did they think we would fall so easily?


She asked me to write about rain

And I thought, “Why not.”