a note

i believe i have never told you the story of my mud house.

and one monsoon, eight months after your birth - they burned my house. with fuming gasoline and tar. i still have a little piece of the molten iron from the door by the alley -scribbled 'sin' across its diagonal. in a bold red; possibly pastel. with the stench of cold, moaning gasoline drips and smudged finger prints. i wish they were mine- little concentric lines piling into a spot.

so many days have passed by. mister x, i still smell your sweat.

note

and mister X, thank you for your time. i appreciate your tenderness.

and mister Y, thank you for your patience. i appreciate your care.

and mister Z, thank you for your gratitude. i love your heart. more so, this one phone conversation which we had. a long time ago. i am sure you have forgotten -do not worry. for, i learned you are a man.

july eighteen

if you break your promise, little pebbles, i will take you home. and they will gape at you with bloody eye lashes.

and they will tell you, little pebbles, give me your hand. and you would be shy. sweaty and slimy. and you would run up to me. patting your little feet on the cold mosaic.

but this time, i will not hold your hand.

july fourteen

little pebbles, i stole your tongue the other night.

and wrapped in my warmth, you heaved a whir of sighs.

and you trickled beads by your pillow. remember that one night?

july ten

and now i know why you walked away.

understand, what you tried to say to me -i didn't smile.

i pulled those strings. the curtains fell in splendor. crimson velvet. through your lashes.

hand in hand, you said. let us pluck those strings.

july eight

i have called you many names.

for a reason.

i wanted you to know that.

june twentynine

and mister curiosity, give me strength. to touch your soul. love your love. feel your pulse. move your rhyme and tap your dance.

and taste your tear, when it glistens in the moon. like when you left those drops behind on the blades. crystal green. like dangling emeralds on little breasts. and my fingers would wriggle all over mosaic. in a monotonic tingle. clasped to your fists. i wouldn't let go.

you hopeless story teller. give me your yarn. and i will spin the wheel.

june sixteen

and i gave you my pen and told you scribble your thoughts out. and you scribbled bold alphabets. all over your palm and delicate fingers. a string of names i've never heard before. in a careful casual font -welcoming, to say the least. semi-cursive. crude and rich.

and i mapped dots through your eyes. remember when we used to run through the field. rustling across a puddle of dead leaf veins. and we looked at each other and giggled all the time. like seven-year-old clowns trapped in a shell of silliness. but we were not seven-year-olds. and remember, how we ploughed through the snow. you heaving. dark, mournful sighs that choked your mind. and then you would sit and collect snow flakes. curse all the time, because they melted through your fists. and you would say look at the stars. they're little flakes silly let them go, i would say. and you'd turn around with a violent swoosh. walk up ten steps. sit down and look outside. you hated snow. i remember. but you slipped away so easily. cast in a mold so that i could never reach you. good job i will say. atleast we are far apart. and i am out of pain. and i am away from all your ridicule. i know you are alive. somewhere, across the ocean.

the water still flows through me. sometimes.

note

and listen, i forgot to tell you something the other day.

two words. thank you.

i have moved on with your breathlessness. i swear. that night. when we went to the tower, I prayed for you. for you, so that your disbelief can be overlooked. and i thought of the city in july, and the rain clouds that rumbled across the greasy alley.

what is to let go? your daunting smile and the grandma tales that spoke of loyalties. lies -I am convinced. promised loyalties? who framed this clause?

My compound. Eu(1,2-BDC)(phen)bredwards.Cl3. H2O

Expecting both ligands to be bidentate chelate. Although phen could turn out to be tridentate. I need to maximize yield of the solvothermal synthesis. However, thanks to the global mailing system, the ionic liquid is not in, even after ordering it one month in advance.

The ionic liquid I am using for synthesis is called ECOENG-212. IUPAC name for the compound is 1-Ethyl-3-methylimidazolium ethyl sulfate. I am yet in the process of defining the chemical composition of "bredwards". Having defined it, I will soon write down the abstract.

So far, that's the plan.

la lune qui flotte

and there you were. burnt by the sunlight and the smell of solitude. i swear in my name, i have missed you with my soul. so these are my words for you.

i love you.

and i spoke to that sheet of emptiness. those charcoal bricks, stacked up since the war. the great war where we dropped a peel of sweat.

Je sens sous tes lèvres, une odeur de fièvre, de gosse mal nourrie, et sous ta caresse, je sens une ivresse, qui m'anéantit. (I smell on your lips, a scent of fever, of an underfed kid, and under your caress, I feel a drunkeness, that kills me).

note

to those three people in my life, who gave me comfort and joy, i want to thank you today.
one is lost, one is gained, one is fading.

i can feel the pulse of this whirl of change. a strange numbness creeping in every day. not that i know the reason, nor do i think i ever will. it's a sort of make or break array. it makes me laugh -the fact that i envisioned this. so subtle and smooth. and i stand at this spot. questioning questions and swatting hopes.

remember when we used to sit and count water drops? the gurgling rain by the window pane, spread across a netted screen. peaceful and calm, you would talk of strangers and candle stands. and bow your fingers in the shape of stars.

it feels like home again. i swear. awkward, yes. like a narrow displacement to a place that wasn't mine. oh listen, why did we come home again? because you said let's run away from this rage. and i said but this rage never ends. so what you said, and pushed my hand away from your chest. but i want to go home. why would they be jealous of me i ask you. and you keep quiet.

you fake plastic beast, i win this game

remember when we started this game? you and i. sitting at the table. flipping through tears and weaknesses. and we decked those cards. you the taker. me the giver.

and i saw through your eyes. at least a hundred times. and didn't say anything. because we're two bodies and a million minds.

this is my trail of imperfection.

recollection

and in the middle of the sea, we quibbled like strangers. two bodies. five minds. because i want your voice. the raspy and chirpy monotone in which you express love. i count your breaths. seven...ten...twelve...twenty-nine...fifty-six. and it stops. you wake up, stretch your soul, arch your knuckles and leave the room. but you leave behind footprints on the carpet. and i collect them when you're gone. they are in my music box. my monopoly.

but you've lost the game. in this endless whirl of conscience and regret, i hear your drones. i remember you. everyday. you remind me of clouds. and innocent rain. that shade of gray scribbled on your grave. i have your fingers in my color box. pitched with pastel. a dark shade of red. but wait. you deserve white. because you are white. or at least you were, till i insulted your blood.

i want a train. if you can give me one, i will give you my finger. i swear i will. and i will trail up to the war lord and spit on his knee. in Paris, you will see, how much i fume. and if you knock at my door, i will trim your sleeves.

i miss your eyes. they are beautiful and round. a mix of brown and green, like the saturday sky.