Yes, I like golden, local-fair, glass bangles –
the kind with gleaming paints, glitter-coated
for they assure me, that wet, dark shadows
are not the legacy of all of humankind
and some leave glittery trails
and footprints of shine and shimmer
upon the ground on which they tread

Yes, I like crumpled letters –
crumpled so much, that it seems as though
the handwritten letters are scrunched
into azure bruises, the boundaries of which
I cannot decipher, but nevertheless
I am a prying cardiologist
I shall not rest, till I touch the core
of these letters, which pulsates
like a curling sliver of warm sunshine
amidst these layers of pain that have been stitched
from the frosty threads of bluing emotion and when
I get to this core, the heart of these letters
I shall operate on it, tear it apart, see what’s inside
and finally stitch it so hard, with the tightest threads
so that what’s inside, stays inside

Yes, I like winter skies –
that linger overhead, like a new bride
donning silken veils of fog and frost
over the moon, which is a single breast
protruding from the chest of the sky
as I watch the wind softly whimper
to the sky, like a doting mother
teaching the sky, to negotiate boundaries
with her breasts

Yes, I like crumpling leaves –
rubbed along the edges with the coppery colors
of that evening, when father left
a day that I’d seize in my bare hands
place on my fingers and spiral it around
like a purple, childhood top
till it transforms into a blurry, starry, sunlit mess
and then, I’d observe imprints of that day
rainbow-shaped footprints, shape shifting into nothingness
on this quivering autumn leaf, breathless under the weight
of old, rusting seasons

Yes, I like long conversations –
played to the rhythm of falling rain

about coffee shops and fragrant walls
about long walks and fairy hide-outs
possibly lurking beneath your footprints
that one footprint which twists and turns
still finding its space on the wet mud
possibly lost between what’s yours, what’s mine
frantically questing for what’s ours

about poetry that I hold tight
in the centre of my palm-
so much so, it leaves a shapeless imprint
on the flushed canvas of my skin
and when I attempt to decipher
the shapes it may hold
it speaks to me, and says
in an ice-cold voice, that it isn’t here
to be understood

about poetry I bring close,
to the tip of my tongue, and inhale
the saltiness of the first snowflake
the reluctant sweetness of rain, the sudden spice
of autumn, the sugary-coats of spring

about poetry that shows,
about poetry that tastes
about poetry the scents
about poetry that remains