Owner of My Expressions.

"He is my music,
my words, his ballerina…"

In the deep dark September,as the half moon sky,
traversed its course from east to west,
I sat in a cluster of some school time mates, some playmates,
separated by ordinance, united after a long time.
Joy knew no bounds, like waves of a cyclonic sea.
Happiness lingered in the air,
like drops of water vapor after a light rain shower..
Most were high on youth, tequila and life.
Some bitten by destiny, some pierced by the forgotten.
Some gnawed by life, some nibbled by prospects…

Abruptly, a man raised his goblet of intoxicant in the air,
as high as he could, as tipsy as he was,
and exclaimed to me,
‘You write beautiful, keep writing!’
I gave out a sigh, I gasped my breath
and next I blurted,
‘O my beloved! Keep happening to me!

A near side I took, just as to pun a quiet laughter.
This young son thinks himself to be a ‘know-it-all’
believes himself to be intellects own call.
What an illusion he is in, he understands my writings,
When he can’t understand my love!
can he?
He will never be able to fathom what I scribble.
Who can?

To me he gave a quizzical look!
Like a wasp on a flower, deprived of nectar,
like a garden without seasons!
Then I thought, to him I will explain,
prove some wrong, his abundant disdain.
To him,Said I…

“Like a whale, my lover devours my expressions,
setting-upsetting their coherence
and makes them dance to his cadence,
He is my music,
my words, his ballerina…

Like words out his Bacardi dripping lips,
like letters out of my quills nib…
When he tells me of the places
where haters die in love.
That there is a world of peace and doves.
Where every warrior triumphs.
Where the sun shines for its beloved, not burn,
and every forlorn has his deserving turn.
Tells me he, that abandons are provided a lap,
and in deepest sorrows a woman claps.
Because he feels, I write…
Because if I write, his pain subsides.

In his deep-set black eyes,
I dip for ink!
Deep into them I go, for the ink shall last long
long enough to scribble a love song!
A song that shall never cease to end..
He paints my dreams,ideas
with the blue of his eyes
or the venom
running through the soft blue veins
beneath his glassy white skin.
Lovers may last a lifetime,
our love will last forever!

And ah! Then suddenly, on paper I drop the words
like broken eyelashes on his cheek.
And as he leans on me to look me in the eye,
and makes a careless wish on the lash on my insist
A gentle blow I give on his cheeks,
to let the eyelash flow off..
to the wild blue yonder.
Like I am blow drying ink on my parchment,
The wild blue chelpark..

Sometimes, I so drop words so carelessly
like shiny green marbles out of his daughters hand,
while he plays the game of brain vita with her!


Even today, on the hook of the opposite door,
his white striped shirt hangs!
I don’t know where, he has gone somewhere.
I am still finding every place for the eyes that care.
I look at the shirt, striking a conversation with it!
I gape at it and write..
Write about how you walked out the door, shirtless,
on that no moon night, when
the earth was angry, trampled to dust.

I remember, I retorted so a many times!
O lover! Why now does your shirt not respond?
Why is it as quiet as a pair of your shoe?
But you chattered a lot!!
The smell of his cigarette still persists in it.
Perhaps it is the same with which,
he burnt his index finger
The fragrance of his love persists.
Perhaps it’s the same that makes me burn for him now..

I gaze,gaze, I write…
The words ooze out of this nib in continuance..
Like these tears flowing down till my lips,
On the parchment..
Words blot! Like I am wet-kissing his burnt finger
Can the shirt not for once, reply?
I wipe my teary eyes, the kohl smudges,
like words smearing on the parchment,
as I swab the tears that wetted it!

He hovers like a constant refrain
at the back of my mind,
like some catchy tune
that would not let me alone
and go on playing inside my head,
Ha! I wonder where in me solely is the irk to express?
It’s all because he identifies me as his only empress!
I write of love and pain.
And often more than not,
he interrupts the light of the table lamp,
with his lanky frame…

For some reason now, I can’t look him in the eye.
I try writing impersonal poems on love,
where he does not grin like that,
his mad-lopsided smile.
And I ain’t the girl full of quirks
Yes, I promise,
I will give us a happy ending.
Because, after twenty crescent moons have gone,
he will come back from the faraway land,
to push his face, close to mine,
when nothing else distances it,
and suffocate me in his perfume,
which he once called ‘masculine’ and me ‘obnoxious’.
He will find me writing,
Of the halo around his head
and the eloquence in his gestures.
But my quill will fall off my hand,
And the parchment will flow…
As into him I’ll merge seamlessly
He in me, formlessly...”

And then,
After I ranted about love and him,
and everything that falls between the two.
The man who admired my writings,
He said,
“If love be the reason you write,
Never cease,
Never stop....”

And if love be a kingdom, he the emperor..