The blind crow cawed all night, scavenging light in the dark. #140Story
Her eyelids beat like wings; her sleep flies away. #140Story
70something and wide-eyed, she asks, Is that the bad guy?
80ish and smiling, he calls, Shh, I can’t hear the dialogue. #140Story
Sunday deals her hours carelessly, between drags of smoke,
puffing her coiffure, and smudge-lipped sips of wine. #140Story
Doubt works hardest in the dead of the night. #140Story
He listens to sleep tiptoe in guilty anklets. #140Story
Cynicism is: The sambar packet’s extra rubber-band. The stepny on a scooter.
The un-discarded phone number. The twelfth man. #140Story
Shake a piggy bank before breaking it, feel empty pockets bottom-first;
For hope of disappointment, is hope seldom disappointed. #140Story
The caterpillar walks to music, its legs like tumbling piano-keys. #140Story
Your sweet nothings, and the dancing crumb on your upper-lip. #140Story
After her first day at school, the little girl went home with a headful of lice,
but no friends to count. #140Story
Pocketing his bus-fare, swallowing his pride, he thumbed a lift.
A kind scooter dropped him, and all his coins, all the way home. #140Story
The spaces between words are the gaps in their seating; the pauses in their dancing;
the lull in their conversations. #140Story
Pirouetting cotton candy. Giddy little ballerina. #140Story
“Happy Teacher Day Miss!” he beamed, in an inked shirt, darned shorts and
last-evening-knocked teeth. Gifts come in strange boxes. #140Story
undoing is and her sweet He slow. #140Story
Her back to him, she sleeps. His feelings, unworded;
her hair in yet-to-be-invented punctuations. #140Story
Runaway Poppins. 40something-year-old knees popping to retrieve them. #140Story
The rain hissed, the tethered goats bleated, and the rowdy dogs barked back all night.
The next morning, only the eagles cried. #140Story
Every father’s waist aspires to be as wide as the reach of his son’s arms. #140Story
Empires and castles with royal elephants are built with
summer holidays, teddy bear ministers, and mosquito nets. #140Story
He gives. She gives in. #140Story
We are seldom imprisoned by walls. We are imprisoned by windows. #140Story
Married on paper, with an ampersand ring. #140Story
When not splashing in the waves, or painting tufts of cloud,
the lighthouse twirls round and round, dizzy and giggling. #140Story
Libraries have fat gilded tomes for knowledge,
and open windows for dreaming. #140Story
He waits for her like a second waterdrop does:
to collect in its arms the gingerly fickle first,
and fall in giddy momentum. #140Story
Underlined eyes. Highlighted cheekbones. Bold lips.
He takes furious notes of her face. #140Story
Dry as bone she stands, toes curled, in a puddle of her clothes. #140Story
Fingers climbing staircases of toes, to stand giddy on the height of restraint. #140Story
He lights a cigarette; the air draws her eyes with kohl. #140Story
Text-relieved tickets. Bottle caps. Context jokes. What ifs.
The things we hold dear are surety; our hearts, emotional junkyards. #140Story
The bottle has held English blueberry jam, Ooty uniform buttons,
delicate hairpins and now, just-pinched gooseberries. #140Story
He asks her to hold his hand, so his feet can still find the ground. #140Story
Four chambers of heart. Four ways, broken apart. #140Story
And we decided we’d call it “falling in love” because there’s never
rhyme, reason, sense or season to hold onto,
or hold us back.#140Story
We’re ever so eager to give away our hearts.
Perhaps they’re too heavy for us to hold. #140Story
Soon we’ll know, that in our lives, we matter the least.
For the promises we made to ourselves,
were the promises we didn’t keep.#140Story
Wars in gnaws of hunger. Defences torn thin.
Territories claimed in throbbing red. Quiet conquests of skin. #140Story
A string of jasmine buds later, her face blooms. #140Story
He purses his lips to keep loose pearls,
coinage, and change from spilling. #140Story
In his approaching shadow, her water lily eyes droop. #140Story
To have too little to halve. To halve too little to have. #140story
The meaning of flowers changes
according to which side of the cemetery wall
he gives them to her. #140story
Then he was owned. Now he is possessed. #140story
She offers quiet words. He serves the sentence. #140Story
The waters of their skins rushed to meet,
but fell through the gaps between their fingers. #140Story
When her warm hand reached for his,
he feared for his butterfingers.#140Story
Slippery chins, smooth shoulders,
shiny noses, knees. Our rounded edges are proof:
we’re made with weathering, built by corroding.#140Story
The glass is half-full of emptiness. #140Story
He watches light & dark throw punches at each other.
Sparks fly. Dark buckles. Light bleeds.
In her window, a tubelight’s come on.#140Story
He left her, with a blooming bouquet of
unfurled tissues at her feet.
Romance is a doing of the eyes. #140Story
Eggshells of composure. #140Story
Someone’s slowly stirring in night blue poison, in Evening’s drink.#140Story
Raindrops make hollow sounds when they knock at my chest.#140Story
She’d give something. He’d get something.
Little wonder, hurt hurts both ways. #140Story with @clownasylum.
We are as transient as our utterances, as opaque as our unsaids.#140Story
Her skin is so deeply the colour of earth,
he can smell the moments before she begins to cry. #140Story
We are born of extraordinary circumstances. We will find
extraordinary means. #140Story
In some homes, bottles, bills, books with banned names,
low-cut clothes, letters, and numbers are secrets.
In most, feelings are.#140Story
All the silences of the sentence crowd
at the beginning of it. Like unfulfilled dandelions. #140Story
Bustling down busy streets, bumping into wayside
heart-hawkers wearing their wares on their sleeves. #140Story
We are built on the waiting cells of our cancers.
Like the bits of sand making glass that pebbles break. #140Story
His spine’s the tinkling xylophone, his pulse, the wavering drum,
his breathing’s the whistling, her thoughts are the hum. #140Story
For every nerve-ending that fires,
every plosive that pops at lips,
every clap of blinking eyes –
there are explosions in the sky.#140Story
His nose is a crestfallen flower: drooping stalk, petals downcast.
His eyes, basil leaves that end in dew. His misery. Her art. #140Story
Travel is sometimes what’s outside myriad windows.
And sometimes, what’s reflected in them. #140Story
Her lips defy geometry. His thoughts defy modesty. #140Story
Distance, is not finding his musk
in the smell of her hair. #140Story
Birthday parties. Suspect letters. Or when he leaves.
Surprise is hardly what happens, but for how long it doesn’t. #140Story
Half-full teacups. Half-empty conversation. #140Story
Grandmothers are angels
who give away their wings to grandchildren. #140Story
Without him, she is half an apple. Wobbly footed.
Core exposed. Severed seeds.
A browning half-sin. #140Story
For every action, there is equal reaction.
For every balloon that escapes gravity’s clutch,
a bird sits on a branch to watch. #140Story
Possession is a woman creating him – bone, muscle, skin.
Possession is a woman destroying him – skin, muscle, bone.
Many I’m-just-a-normal-person promises later,
she is yet to meet a normal person. #140Story
Dejection walks in dancing shoes. #140Story
Doctors conclude that the leading cause for
both narcissism, and self-loathing,
are the same: mirrors. #140Story
Home is somedays inside the door,
looking hungrily out – and somedays outside the door,
looking longingly in. #140Story
In reverence to the ways of her fingers, his hair stood on end.#140Story
Where is our kingdom? When will it come? #140Story
The slide of her shoulder, curl of nostril, depths of hair, ends of lashes.
He envied light for holding her in places
Power is his ability to make her deliriously happy. #140Story
He basked in the already-11 sun. Time ran by. Grabbing her by the waist,
he asked, “What’s the hurry love? Got some place to go?”#140Story
And at the end of evolution is humanity.
Our actions, no longer in the bounds of who we are.
But finally, in what we do. #140Story
He’d finally bridged his head and heart with irrefutable logic:
Here is now. Now is she. She is here. #140Story
She lifted the waves of her hair from the pillow, bound them
in a swirling whirlpool, and left,
with him struggling mid-ocean. #140Story
He advised his patients to talk to themselves. They were, after all, the best,
most sympathetic listeners they could ever find. #140Story
He was the white of snow. She was the cold of it.
He broke open the lock on the chest, sliced the eaves of neglect,
cleared films of dust, and drank deeply the memory of her smell.#140Story
Sparks are fireflies of luminous intensity. #140Story
We are poems. Defined by unsaids, metered by caution,
metaphors for kin.
Our breaths, like spaces between words, catch before a -#140Story
Reading braille on the sealed lips of a blank sheet of paper.#140Story
The spaces between his ribs are moulds for her fingers, the edge of his cage,
for her thumbs – to open a humble gift he gives her.#140Story
The most mesmerizing thing about a woman is her hair.
Pan, trapped in Saturn’s, watches her through this veil eternally. #140Story
Fallen apples aren’t proof of gravity.
Knees in surrender are.#140Story
Waiting is most days, the black veil.
On some days, the brown eyes.#140Story
He cast a line in her ear today.
It tugged. He reeled it in. #140Story
Growing up is a problem
even her mother can’t solve. #140Story
On some days, love is who holds in their hate longer.
On other days, hate is who holds back their love. #140Story
If the heels are the beginnings, and the head,
the end – the neck is the thickness of love. #140Story
He boxed with his shadow. And lost both ways. #140Story
Sinews of muscle and strings of nerves bind us.
Brittle bones set us free. #140Story
Giddy circles of argument.
Triangle of her skin between seam of top and beginning of jeans.
Square expression. Love is geometry.#140Story
She promised herself she’d leave,
before the seat of her stockings could fray.
The breeze was so lovely, she forgot them today.#140Story
He came to an incomplete home,
after an unresolved conflict,
with unfinished popcorn. #140Story
Improbability ran, and ran down several zeros,
before rushing up to embrace one certainty. #140Story
I held a box of the universe for my son to pick just 3 things out,
assured that no matter what he picked,
he could get by with.#140Story
He slept, arms like he’d serenaded her
at her window that evening.
She slept, legs like she’d run away him. #140Story
The man who knew too much married the most
intelligent person he’d ever met: the woman
who knew enough. #140Story
Too proud to beg, too honest to steal, the wayside poet
rummaged through piles of broken promises
outside effusive men’s homes.#140Story
On most days, he can’t forgive her.
On other days, he can’t forget her. #140Story
He watched her wipe her nailpolish with tufts
of acetone-drunk cotton. His bride gone,
now his wife. #140Story
Mothers fold it in the smell of their sarees.
Fathers line it in their jackets’ inner pockets.
Home, is hide and seek. #140Story
They sat at the edge of reason.
The view was breathtaking.#140Story
As far as earworms went, his favourite
was her breathing. #140Story
He didn’t leave. Not because he had no place to go to.
He didn’t leave. Because then, he’d have no place
to leave from. #140Story
When on guard, she binds her hair in an aperture that threatens
to catch him considering the vulnerability of her neck. #140Story
She’d never fully left, until even her absence had left. #140Story
The unsaid lies behind the wall of his skin.
She is armed, with fingertips. #140Story
Her plait had come loose. Her rubber band was in his hand.
And her tears unravelled like ribbons down her cheeks. #140Story
According to her, every feeling in the world has a name.
This feeling, she decided, was called daddy. #140Story
He woke to an empty pillow scrawled with curly stray taunts.#140Story
His eyes followed her all the way up to disappointment. #140Story
In the age of modesty, her hair and his fingers are misfits. #140Story
He tenderly confessed, “I play the organ at church.”
The prostitute burst out laughing. #140Story
For sale. A nun’s habit. Never used. #Hemingway #140Story
His tongue ran through his mind, stirring hordes of sleepy words
aflutter. Then, they settled on the telephone line between them.
He knew age would slide down her sides and settle thick at her
hips. She knew age would gather round his ankles and so, he’d
To her, nothing around him could be inanimate. His
pillow dimpled under his head. His t-shirt drummed at his
The night’s countless hours he had to kill. And yet, he made
himself instant noodles. #140Story
Just like everyone else, he’d inherited his mother’s self-doubt,
and his father’s self-destruction. #140Story
The sun juiced her lap’s diaphanous skin. The car seats
smelled hot. She sucked at the orange candy that didn’t
run. #Yoshimoto #140Story
Their boat bobbed on his sleeping desires. The
boards creaked and groaned under the weight of her
tread. #McEwan #140Story
When played in reverse, they didn’t fall in love. They
bubbled up. They loved in ferocity, before they never met
again. #Vonnegut #140Story
He woke up on the wrong side of bittersweet. #140Story
The boy with coffee eyes smiled. Her knees
All their earthly belongings fit in the pallu of her saree: An
idol god. Gold coins from their wedding. And their week old
His mind was slowly unraveling. With the loose threads, he
spun bright quilts for his grandchildren. #140Story
The streetlight leaned against the pole, smoking lazily, half-
mast eyes devouring the drunk drizzle’s dirty dance with the
Disciplined hair. Poker straight back. Perfect Th of Thank You.
A man of manners. He’d found a little bread. Now, to find a
With deft movements of her fingers, she’d spell her eyes with
kohl. Spell, of course, in braille. #140Story
Her love swelled his heart and made it lighter. Afraid it would
float away, he’d put in a stone a day. Soon, he had a heavy
She twirled her hair. Sighed. Looked at the time. Wrung her
fingers. Chewed her lips. Looked at the time. Sleep was late
Her secrets would wilt into sweet nothings when he listened
without imagination. #140Story
He wrote of fading love & hoped she wouldn’t believe it’s them.
She wrote of lasting love & hoped he wouldn’t believe it’s
His ma went to bed, too ill to hold her love. He stood on the
spot where she had, soaking up the warmth she’d spilt on the
By tomorrow, her hair would’ve curled, her lips would’ve
forgotten lines, her smell, returned. So tomorrow, he’d fall in
Winter came. So she patched her jeans, disbanded her hair and
burnt her rebellion. #140Story
You, before the words. The roundness of your buttons. The
texture of your cuticles. The exposure of your elbow. Love is
Rings. Portraits. Children. Snug-knit sweaters. New smelling
homes. Old letters. Heartbreaks are made of these. #140Story
She slept in the impression of him on his side of the bed. It was
the most comfort he had ever given her. #140Story
He couldn’t whistle. She couldn’t remember dates. It’s okay,
they decided, that’s what the kids would do. #140Story
She was watching their wedding video, shredding a tissue.
He pulled on his boxers and said, “Hey, that looks just like
She didn’t want to talk. The darkness was an itchy blanket
that didn’t agree with him. Livid, he stabbed the dark with a