There is a city that lives within the city and it comes alive at night. At night when the world is indifferent, a city comes to life breathing in silence away from the city. At night the city changes its colors, only at night a city rises from within the city.
Only at night the nocturnal creatures come back to life.
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Unlike the apple on my table, which will start rotting in the next few days. Grief remains raw like a fresh wound. The wound does not heal with time it becomes something else, something without a shape, size, or smell. It becomes everything and keeps changing its form with each passing day.Grief can bean empty chairmessy bedstained mirrorcigarette butsempty packets of chipsAmy Winehouse songsunread messagesMonsoon rainsBelow average poemsA splitting headacheand nothing.General Laws of physics don't apply to grief, time has no effect on it.Grief is a cage and which just gets bigger with time.We just get used to it, like an apple on a table.
To the one who is packing lunch For kids on a sultry summer morningTo the one who just got her heartbroken,God knows how many times.The one who is struggling every dayTo get up from the bed.To the one who is searching online,How to hide bruises on the face on the internet.To the one trying to hide blemishesWith a concealer. To the one who just finished a whole Tub of chocolate ice cream.To the one who smoked her last cigarette of the day.To the women whose partner is indifferentAnd went to sleep early.This is an ode to all the womenwho took control of their pleasureagainst all oddsThis is an ode to all thewomen who do themselves. s.m
Bus stop benches are sad and lonely places. People rarely smile. People waiting for buses have dead blank eyes. Maybe they are already dead its just the body which is commuting.
When this is over take the long way home,talk to the dogs on the street about lonelinessand the art of making love under the open sky.Click a picture of a stranger doing nothing,Standing still,living an ordinary life unaware of your existence.Hold your mother's handsobserve the lines of her palmsthe wrinkles on her skinthe intricate network ofveins carrying blood.When this is overgo to a beachor a mountainand remember all good things begins elsewhere.Maybe you should not go anywhereyou should sit next to metalk about how nothing makes sense anymoreOr maybe we should not talk about anythingwe should make lovemy body your bodyand our shared tragedy.s.m
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