This beauty your smile – like a piece of the sun, Laughter thick as cream Days endured I wait for you an unanswered prayer

Paused, not broken.

Between the words of I and love and you, missing and kissing. In between the thousand and one cities; yours and mine. Caesuras of longing belonging, turning returning. Paused, not broken. A moment. A sigh. Exhale. I pick up where you left off. We are unbroken / We are unbroken.


Flour-kissed skin. Mouths run dry. My blood flips.

Thinking of freedom

To speak and be heard. To tell, to give, to share, and await expectation of coming upon newness.  To feel the breath of another upon my cheek. To touch skin. To connect with all that is beyond living; alive. I miss everything I never used to think about before. To dirty my hands with the…

Reintroducing Siddharth Dhavant Shangvi

Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi is an Indian author. His debut novel The Last Song of Dusk (2004) won the Betty Trask Award (UK), the Premio Grinzane Cavour in Italy, and was nominated for the IMPAC Prize in Ireland. Translated into 16 languages already. He has written a much thought provoking piece here on why labourers are…

Almost Holy

The longing for you is almost holy. Warm you sleep; your eyelids closing are the night coming for me. Inescapable love of lives,  my lingering ache is the origami crane tucked in your breast. Doing undoing wills and possibilities: with each breath, life raises itself and with every exhale it returns. As it is with all…

How to Say Goodbye – 1

So much time has passed since I’ve seen you. Still, the memory of you remains an ever-fixed mark on all I see. The image of your face recalls itself, with delicately woven fibres, patterning the windows in my house and the frozen glimpses in hallways, pathways, byways. I can’t look at my own face in the mirror…

Hunger for Hunger

No more songs for all you fools, broken-hearted and twice innocent. The ones yet too unripe to know what awaits you. The living years of loving are mostly futile and will end in disappointment and cold tea. Didn’t they tell you? You too will grow weary of what little the world offers by way of…

To Less

Fewer books, and only those which hit that hard-to-find sweet spot. Books that lay back basking in your mind not unlike satisfied lovers on crumpled bedclothes. Fewer friends, but deeper connections. Fewer relationships; grander love, greater passion, incontinent desire. Less buying, more giving. Less impatience, less intolerance, and less apathy. Here’s to less.

In love with a dead thing

How long do you stay in love with a dead thing? It doesn’t speak. It does not take my name. It does not stir night or day. I say my I love yous into the void. I send missives that land with a weary thud on the doormat in a house unopened for three full…