Will talk

Will talk
When your mirror will hug the dusty fog,
when the grief will not set with the Sun.
when your moustache be grey
and crescent under the eyes darker.
When thirty trees will grow around you
and you’ll be breathless running after the grandkids.
When the golden brooch will kiss the dust more in the cupboard than on your suit.
When not being loved enough will crush your dinner-dates.
When birthdays be knife
and birthday songs the passing clouds.

We’ll talk
When you’ll be seventy.
I’d love to know
how the distance treated you.
We will talk then,
Did you live or just survived?

Paper Hearts

Not gonna lie,
I find you so unattractive.

When your mind-bending skills
of origami turn my apprehensions
into those little things that fly away.

When your plants come alive
with you in plain sight,
repaying your loyalty.

When you audaciously go
and bake the glow for the moon
after the day sucked your soul.

From collecting coins to quotes
you let your adult self color the life book
from the paintbrushes buried in your impaled back.

When you spin, knit, create
the shattered hearts or nearly
wilted flowers to either revive
or help leave/(live) them in peace.

When you write so authentically;
The way your sorrows and smiles
dance on the paper,
it made the phrase “paper hearts”
come out in the open.

When you be a generous witch
for summoning my lost soul
that parted long back and
forgot to feel anything.

What’s so (un)attractive about you?
That makes me pull from you
and long for you, all at the same time.
I am used to the ugliness
of drains, of brains,
of hidden corners, of tragic mourning.

I am scared of you.
People like you set
highest of expectations
of how a life must be lived.
And I am afraid,
Once, I would go past
all the criticisms and validations
I’d be hazardously free.
Like you!
And then I wouldn’t be able to
go back to a mediocre life.
Atleast not without you.
And they’d be no one to blame to,
not even myself because
you’d leave.
I know you will.