Bitter

Like the smell of coffee, residual memories cling to everything and everyone; faint reminders of all the things we're trying to forget.

Inane

I'm distracted from scrutinising the lines on my face by the pigeon outside our bathroom window. He watches me strangely, cocking his head this way and that, examining my dental hygiene routine with his discerning eyes.

And then finally, he asks:
What are you doing?

I'm brushing my teeth, it's something we do.

He's unimpressed:
Why?

Well, we like to keep clean.

That's rubbish, he smirks and leaves me to wonder if he was talking about social constructs or...

Epilogue

Shy strains of morning, I mistake the milk swirling into my coffee for the blood that rushes your veins and I think for a moment that I might miss you, I just might. And yet dawn is hours away; three and a half to be precise.

Watching the patterns the tears made as they ran down her cheeks, the little tin soldier thought about how, even in her sadness, the little doll was so pretty.

Awkward

Pretty dresses hang in a shop window, and people duck in as it begins to pour. The girl in the dressing room emerges to a room full of spectators, and blushes the shade of her dress. Then quickly she turns to the nearest woman and begs, "Would you zip me up, please?"

Where I’m From

I am from the kitchen
From the sweet smell of carrot cake
From my mother's perfect buter curls
From the worst sense of humour on earth
And from being denied brinjal and chane ka atta, am I

I am from scrathes and itches and marks of volition
I am from forests of trees and spiders and birds and light
I am from roads, or rather the sides of them; I am the hours spent waiting to cross, I am the fear of crossing

I am the daughter of confusion, betrayal and willpower
From the dust of bookshelves, the fur of dogs and goofy pants that weren't mine, I am
I am from dicipline and learning not to mess with dust, not to play with dogs and not to goof around with other people's pants

I am from blood and pus
I am from cotton and cloth
From 3 baths a day, while we played with tea cups,
I had 40 tiny ones, and a bathtub
I am from topical steriods

--
This is after a poem by George Ella Lyon. That I discovered from Amna Ahmad's blog, when I was on Natasha Badhwar's blog. I'd like to know where you're from too =)

The age where, to have a heart, is to hide it.

Fading

She licks the colour
As she speaks and the lipstick
Fades, fades, fades lighter.

How sadly, we are

Drawn, to the charm of sadness 

Like moths, to a flame

Ms. Taken

"Do you remember that time?", he said, excited like a child, a sparkle in his eye and mischief in his smile. "That time when I grabbed your hand, and we ran beneath the flicker of lamplight; to that little place, a corner in the dark alley we know so well?"

"No", she says, coolly, "You did that with someone else; I'm married, you see. Clearly, you're mistaken."

All I want is to fold into you like flour into cake batter.

Very Shaggy

That weird couple and their shaggy dog took a walk at midnight. Beneath the trees they walked and up on a hill and past sleeping windows and droopy street lamps. And out past the kittens and birdies and baby button mushrooms all asleep, they walked. They walked till their feet hurt, they walked till their sneakers were ripping at the seams, they walked till their shaggy dog panted. They walked and walked and walked, and then they stopped when they got to the little drug store on the hill.

It was a fabulous cup of coffee.

Except for the honey bee at the end.

To be alive is to keep adding names to the list of people you'll never see again.

When I realised that the smell he associated with me was that of the soap I used, I wasn't sure whether to be amused or offended. Eventually I figured that he was just being honest and reporting things exactly as he finds them. Sign me up for that, I'll take reality over fiction any day.

Raindrops grace our porch
As violently we work, on
Demon black laptops.

He lay on his bed, turning her words over in his mind. He turned them over and over, and over again till they'd lost all meaning - they became syllables, devoid of semantic. What could she have meant?

One last time, he let her words slip across his mind.

Glaring at him coolly, the last thing she'd said was, "You over think everything."

She left her scarf behind the other day, and with it the scent of her perfume and the sweat of her neck.

Proximity

She'd known him for a while. The map of birthmarks, the constellation of scars, the mosaic of soft hair, pasty skin and redorangepink-tinted lips; she thought she knew him. She thought she'd recognize him anywhere.

--

She'd known him for a while. The power and beauty of his dreams, the colour and complexity of his demons and the things that turned his frown around; she thought she knew him. She thought she'd recognize him anywhere.

#MicroFiction

He thought she was delicious, but she was really bittersweet

On keeping your wits...
... Or losing your mind

• Harbour a healthy mistrust for all things and people, but mostly for everything the media says and for propaganda, that is assuming you can identify it.
• But listen to people, listen with an open mind, they have the truth.
• Question everything without exception. Ask questions often and much, even if this makes people think you're crazy.
• Always wear comfortable shoes, you never know when you'll need them.

"Deviji", he said...

On Luminous Skin

I watch the sunlight travel across your shoulder; with its supernatural powers, the sun unearths your skin's natural iridescence - you glow warmth from within. A single ray spills onto your face and pours itself into the depth of your jewel tones, but failing the mark it bounces and scatters as radiant reflections. Even the translucent waves clings to your skin, as if to siphon some of your brilliance and selfishly retain it. Lost in your glitter, I scarcely notice you staring at me watching you sunbathe.

Summer

They lay sprawled across the mattress, feet intertwined. The wind rustled and the fan whirred but sweat was dripping down their backs. She tasted like strawberries & red wine. Love is so much sweeter in the summer.

Blessings and Injuries

Every time I've injured a part of my not-so-fit anatomy, I've come to realize how much we take for granted.

So far I have discovered how hard it is to function with an injured:
Neck
Wrist
Arm
Shoulder
Throat
Nose
Respiratory tract
Tongue, mouth

A healthy, fully useable body is a true blessing. As the song says, "While you're young, by all means, use your body in every way you can." I can see why.

Somnacrobatics

I've slept into a notebook,
Snoozed around a teacup,
Dozed while standing in a train,
And dazed out on a hiccup.

#MicroFiction

He wasn't interested. Fortunately, she wore the kind of perfume that made you switch sides

Strange, but True

Because I know you're reading this
I've lost the ability to write

Kitten

Her small form seemed to sink into the corner of his couch, she was
slowly disappearing into it. The short crop of her black hair, the black
lace and the clothes that covered her tiny frame made her look like a
kitten; dangerous, by young and playful, with only a little menace. He
crossed the room towards her, inviting her to dance with him. But she
kept sitting, curled up yet attentive, sharp yet mild; and still as the
air, like a snake in the grass.

Knives of Ice

She stood in the river, the water like knives of ice freezing her veins,
the cold river bed a few feet beneath her thighs. She didn't know
whether to cross or to go forward or to move to the left or right or to
run to the hills or hide beneath the trees. There was no one around to
ask and she'd lost her map long ago. Terror was slowly seizing her, even
as the sweet possibility of hope floated on the breeze. Yet, she stood
there, constantly eroded by the river and gently calmed by the breeze.

Loser

Loser, they called him without knowing what it meant. Loser, because his ways were strange to them. Loser, for all the times that he had gotten lost.

If he had applied his  intelligence  to business or entrepreneurship, he would probably have been one of the most notable minds of his age. But instead, he chose to live happily beneath a tree, in the still peaceful wilderness - his most loserly decision yet.

Epiphany

It was a gentle, translucent day, the very lucid kind, the kind that could charm the pants off you without uttering a single word. She ventured past the trees and onto the wild grass; the butterflies circled her flowing redorange hair, the larks serenaded her from the trees. There were also earthworms wriggling beneath the soil and bugs dying to live in the dirt beneath her nails, but we're less concerned with them. She was just beginning to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the swell of the breeze when a hunter saw her and with one terrifying gunshot, he killed the last female orangutan in the Amazon.