your kiss

tastes like fresh cold sweet tangerines in july:


loving someone is

loving someone is

netflix takeaway old pajamas staying in staying up
a hug a kiss the-last-cookie-in-the-cookie-jar
hurried iloveyous before rushing off slow iloveyous
before falling asleep sad iloveyous sorryiloveyous
let’s make up iloveyous the warm nights the cold nights
surprises laughter a lightness in september
a light,


how can these twenty-six letters
carry all the love i have for you. how do i make you feel
an inch of this gigantic universe you’ve built in me.

i miss you.
i miss you so much that it physically hurts not talking to you.

yet i do not know where to begin.
where our talks used to be carefree, long, simple, now they are
strained, soft, sad. this distance finally feels like the million miles it is,
the familiar feeling of you in the next room suddenly faded.

you used to make me laugh.

you used to say those special sacred words
and i’d beam and light up like a Christmas tree for weeks. i’d dance
listening to our favorite songs and daydream in locked rooms
and keep those words like a shrine in my heart.

i could repeat them to strangers on the street,
you are my favorite author and my best friend.

why does being in love with you hurt this much?

i just want to pack all this love i have for you in a suitcase
so this hurt doesn’t feel like it’s infiltrating, oozing into the cracks
of my soul. your words have lost their meaning, dearest.
i am not that special.

i am not the girl you miss at 2pm when you are swamped
with work. or the reason why you’d anxiously check your phone
every hour. i am not the girl you think about when a love song
comes on the radio or the girl you want to kiss more than anything
else in the world. i’m not the reason you smile to yourself
and i’m not the name that makes you tender and safe and glad.

it feels like the fuse box has gone off and now the only person
i could have depended on is the reason why i am sitting in the dark.
i miss you. and i wish my heart didn’t feel so blocked, aching and
full of words it can’t get out.

i thought i could love you from a distance without attachments
but i can’t help feeling so small and helpless and hurt. when one day
you are going to tell me about her and how you kissed her and it felt
like everything you’ve wanted in a lifetime was in those few minutes
with her, i hope i’ll be somewhere far off in a universe where
it would have felt like the ache of missing every train in my life.

maybe i need some time to get there, to the other side when i can
truly let you go. when i fell in love with you, it was for everything you were;
with every twenty six letters of the alphabet that we shared

but now it feels like i need more,
like i need more letters so you’d understand the dull aching pain
of loving someone who doesn’t love you back.

on the other side of the postcard.

nothing in this world is certain;
so what can be said of you or me
i want all my tomorrows to begin with you
yet i know even this could be my last breath

so i’d like to tell you if ever you chance upon this read
i have always loved you, it seems, even before our time
and i am certain that between us is an unbreakable thread
that traverses our destinies and unites our souls

you’d scoff at me if i told you i had woken up some nights
with your name on my lips, every fiber of my being terrified
that i’d lost you- the feeling of losing you so familiar-
as if our goodbyes have surpassed our beginnings countless times

i hope you find love, dearest
it’s funny- so long i’d thought it mattered you loved me
and now i realize it doesn’t. all i desire is your happiness,
is for you to feel too, the electricity of love

the way it makes you hope against hope,
place faith in helpless things, find beginnings amongst endings.

she is lucky, you know. she has all her tomorrows with you.

i’m glad for our little dreams, our yesterdays,
i’m glad for the goodbyes because they gave me a hello with you
and i know tomorrow is but a dream, and i keep writing letters to you
that you’ll never read-

like writing letters to an astronaut i’m in love with-

but i love you.

it’s a little shout into the countless galaxies between us
that i love you in the way the sun loves the moon;
distantly quietly softly amongst shadows
without names or possesions.

i hope you find love; i hope you find all your beginnings
someday send me a postcard, i’ll let you know
my beginnings too.


letting go;

i am not writing sad poems about you anymore
there is a loveliness in letting go;

there is beauty in setting free something so wonderful as you

when you are out there with me only as a distant reminder
know i’ll always remember you, always wishing the best for you.
and when you are out there change as many lives as you can
the way you did with me.

i hope you meet a girl who makes you believe in love.
i hope you realize it is worth it.

i was wrong when i said love isn’t worth much because i loved you.
and believe me, it was worth it.

so i hope you find all the happiness in this world
and all the answers to the questions we’ve asked and i hope one day
we’d know if our lives turned out the way we dreamt.

send me a postcard sometime.

so when you go, close the door behind you, i’ll clear up this space
you left behind somehow. i’ll still write letters to you but
i probably wouldn’t have your address and you won’t have mine.

there is a loveliness in letting go, there is something beautiful
in freeing something as wonderful as you.

when it rains, i’ll always think of you.

-an excerpt.

my type of guy. a take on the definition of love.

if i never met you, i’d tell you

i am a girl who writes. who would talk to you and stop in the middle of a sentence

and fish out an old bill and furiously write down some words and look up

and continue the conversation with you as if nothing had just happened.


i’d tell you that i would never date you unless you had good comebacks and

loved words and synonyms and autonyms and even ‘hey whaddup dawg’ and could do cute

accents, and hated bieber (duh.)


if i never met you, i’d tell you

i am a girl who never shuts up. i could go on about sunlight, the way the leaves are

so green in summer, i could stand in an empty parking lot just watching a tree. and you would have to be the type of patient guy who wouldn’t think i was crazy, or who did, but stood with me anyway and asked me if i wanted to wait for a leaf to fall so we could press it in to the pages of a notebook to remember the night we ran around in a car park trying to catch leaves every time the wind blew.


i’d tell you that i would never date you unless you could turn me on with your conversations about Atlantis and mythical gods and your lost sneakers, that i would never date you unless you had at least a few really corny lame jokes that would make me laugh until my stomach hurt. i would never date you unless you could do something pretty cool, like rob a bank. i am kidding. but it’d be nice learning something new from you. i’d like to listen to you and fall in love with your words, your explanations. maybe you could teach me how to microwave bread without the bread crumbs sticking to the plate. or fix a lightbulb.


if i never met you, i’d tell you

i am a girl who hates shopping, who has never worn make-up in her life, doesn’t own a single pair of proper heels and a single labelled handbag (come to think of it, i have never bought a handbag myself). so if you are the gift kind, don’t bother with jewellery or any fancy stuff. just buy me a book of poems… and i’d probably scream your ears off. please don’t bother with modern chick novels, trust me- you can judge some books by their covers, for example: if they are glaringly hot crushy pink don’t buy them; same goes for any t-shirts you are planning to buy (what a coincidence, ha.).


i’d tell you that i would never date you unless you were okay with making mistakes. please forget my birthday and our anniversaries or crazy ‘the first time we…’ days. just realise you never have to walk on eggshells around ‘us’, i would never break up with you just because you forgot the first day we…wore matching shoes. or laughed at the same pitch. or breathed in at the same time. you get the idea. pleasee be human. wear socks that don’t match and make me laugh. watch your football matches and fall asleep on the couch so i could draw animals on your face with lipstick and wake you up with a bucket of ice cubes. i want us to make mistakes, to falter, to search for words, i don’t want perfect- i want the trying, the believing, the ideals. i want us to say stupid things to each other. i want honesty. i want you, as you are.


if i never met you, i’d tell you

that i am a sucker for love. the plato, shakespeare, bollywood drama type. the swoon in my arms, writing poetry, the moon-looks-like-your-eyes type of love. the long distance, or even the short distance if you were the ‘guy next door’. i am the type of girl who wants simple things from you- not the latest restaurant that opened up across town or the club with good music- i want the downtown café that plays old music and serves greasy food, the taking random buses and ending up in towns with names we cannot pronounce, i want days with you when we just talk about what we read in books or the places we’d like to travel if we were loaded and filthy rich. i want to see the world the way you do, i want to visit your hometown, i want to fall in love with your favourite places.


i’d tell you that i would never date you unless you were the type of guy who would run out with me and get drenched in the rain at midnight. or went crazy if we heard a song we knew while we were shopping for groceries at the supermarket so we’d sing at the top of our voices. i would never date you unless we could have conversations about everything and crazy arguments about rainbows and fluffy pillows. i wouldn’t date you unless you were at least a little curious about the workings of the universe and believed in things bigger than you.


i hope you like travelling and going to museums and art fairs, i hope you like paintings and musty bookstores and  mystical things. i hope you like poetry. i hope you like playing the glad game and finding silver linings and old songs. i hope you are vegetarian, or at least a seldom meat eater. i hope you are spiritual. i hope you love libraries and waking up in mornings and talking.



but in the end none of these things really matter. in the end, love isn’t about who we are. real love takes guts because it’s loving someone not for who they are, but who they want to be- all of them and their ambitions and dreams and ideals and hopes. love is noticing what is and what could be and forgetting the chasm in between. maybe that’s my definition of love- and maybe that’s dreamy- but that’s the only type of love that i want someday.