Early Morning Coffee

Last night I slid into darkness
Thinking about two of my friends
They've been together thirteen years
They make me feel like not myself.
When people meet,they laugh and share
Stories about maybe, their weekends?
When I make plans to meet these two
I homework lies for self defense.
Source: Google Images

This early morning coffee
Is a forecast for the day
It's a full house Oprah show
To decide who I am today.
Contemplation and information
Are the other ingredients
Besides the caffeine and the sugar
That decides if I'll be safe.

I'm not so sure, how it works
Being together,more than a few months
I lie confidently, and suck in more air
To compensate for the hollowness there.
Should I give it a try? should I let it be?
What kind of person am I looking for to date me?
This coffee gives me time, to think about my life
Should I strut singularity, or should I be with some guy?

This early morning coffee
Is a forecast for the day
It's a full house Oprah show
To decide who I am today.
Contemplation and information
Are the other ingredients
Besides the caffeine and the sugar
That decides if I'll be safe.

One last sip, and a trailing thought
Completely unrelated to how long term dating works.
I should buy that new dress I saw at the store
Maybe that will help me to fall in love some more.


Calcutta Sweetheart

A love story different from the ones seen on  TV,
Different from the ones read in books, 
Written by people with strange names living overseas,
One rising out of the pages of lost scrapbooks.
Yet, it sounds like all love stories when told years down the line,
At a gathering of friends, strangers or to your own child.
The details matter-the tiny, unabashed, gaping plot holes in the tale,
Similar to the potholes in the city on a rainy day.
You never know when you hit one on your way.


Dark rooms, black and white photographs.
Nightlife inundated in sepia.
A catcall, a whistle, a sudden rushing truck.
Paintings of people peering with their elongated eyes.
Religions, a thousand gods.
And a fervor to make the most of everyday.
Parks and buildings from an era gone,
Immortalized in the ways of the people themselves.

Every day is an ascension up the city's unending spiral stairs.
Every house is replete with songs by a one man army,
Every family in the city ripples with stories hidden away.
Every person is determined not to sell their soul for free.
Every creature matters; the pigeons and the dogs can tell a lot of tales.
Every taxi has all the colors of the rainbow within its yellow walls.
Every unknown place seems familiar within minutes.

Bits and pieces of an erratic history,
Bits and pieces of an urban mystery.
Every bit of what a city should be,
Every bit of what a city shouldn't be.


Amidst the rush, there's a boy and a girl.
They are sitting on a bench looking at each other, 
Unsure and hopeful at the same time,
Wondering about the other's opinion on first moves.

A tram trundles past, ringing its bells.
A rickshaw trundles past, ringing its bells.
A cycle wheels past, ringing its bells.
A school unites children with their parents, ringing its bells.
A man emerges from a narrow lane, squeezing his paunch through the tiny space.
He shoots a glance at the two, nods his head and goes his way.
An auto driver stops to check, he is need of a fare.
Two schoolgirls giggle loudly,openly pointing at them.

An unfinished poem, a movie ticket stub.
Holding hands when crossing the road .
The cars and the buses least bothered to stop at the red lights.
A little run,breathlessness and a mildly angry shout at the drivers.
A quick kiss, a stolen cigarette.
Sipping on one cold drink to beat the heat.
The long waits to eat at each others favorite restaurants.
A little walk in the night, breathlessness and incomprehensible knots in throats.
Winter morning Tibetan breakfasts, lunches from China,
Boat rides that were favorites amongst the English.
A secret shared, breathlessness and the wait of an eternity for acceptance.
Half a bottle of liquor,an honest confession.
Making excuses to stay out for five nights in a year.
The parents in the city all have degrees in nonchalance.
A proposal for them, breathlessness and another proposal kept away for the right moment.


An author's impression of a free city.
A musician's impression of his(/her) inspiration.
A dancer's impression of prevailing confusion.
A painter's impression of a secret affair.
Photo Source:Google Images


It's getting dark outside The winter cold almost upon us, I know you are thinking about me as I am about you. We are cut from the sa...