What is this propensity to prove me wrong?
Cut all words into a dice of your own?
Why sharp the edges and use the syllables like knives on our hearts?
Why these pointed stares?
All that you throw,
fall like water on a frying pan,
And all that remains are smokes and stains.
Life is neither diabetic tea cups nor salt-less curries.
It could be though,
Try adding a dollop of smile,
one that shows your dimples that I always found difficult to dodge.
we could have dipped our fingers in those curries and all ego would have sunk in the bottomless cup of life.
Words can heal wounds and it wasn't even a bruise but those silicate thunders that brought storms even on a breeze less desert nights, just gets amplified through the veins of a decade long tunnel of togetherness.
Weren't we happy in the pitch darkness of tunnel, where all that we had was our voices to throw anchors and roam around
or just float in the galaxies of imaginations,
of a sightless horizon.
Why this propensity to fathom the depths then,
why now when we don't even remember
the last address of our lives?