Funny isn’t it,
how some lines
drawn upon
people’s faces
smeared on their clothes,
stretched over their palms
draw them together,
the warmth of their voices
and the coolness of their existence
together at the exact moment
shake up the present.
And some other instance
the same lines
draw them
far away,
leaving the connection
that never was
in tatters.
How exotic
are the things
we do not know.
A place.
A person.
A perspective.
Hanging unto
pieces of information,
living by
half unseen realities,
half imaginations.
How exotic
are the things
we do not know.
Alain de Botton writes, ‘Everyone is equally difficult and awkward to be with.’
Words elude me,
hiding in corners
that would not be visible
to the eye.
Words refuse me,
reluctant to walk
into my pages
to be written in ink.
Words leave me,
unable to stay
for the vacant
spaces that echo.
But why must we
run after the running,
chase the slipping,
capture the flowing?
The wind blows,
piercing cold radiating
from the inside of the bones.
Curl and twist
to keep warm,
dreaming of blossom
as leaves fall over the ground.
Chilly mornings,
waiting for the sun to shine.
