Soumya Scribbles...

That night some rain conspired and stole clouds from your sky to pour down on me. Love is what turns a why to a how. So you never questioned. I drenched, wondered, wandered. Window is an escapade for poetry. And my decor is un-weak. So in our world there are only rooms. Doors can be latched, Unlike your memories and my emotions. I haven't let them yet. We can cook up love, is it? Moments are kept in spice jars. Never mix them while they are there. It may smell. I will bring you fire. Burn. Let us go deep. Here is the bed where A platonic you meets a real me. Chiffon hesitance may rest, We will only whisper tonight. Beneath this, there is a grave which lies as a witness to many a sobs. Never visit there with naked feet. You will at once know its our dark that I have still preserved. Ask me why. An irrelevant me will answer, Even our saddest moments were too special to let go by. Do not plant a kiss yet. We have no doors. SoUmY@

Is there a tunnelway to poetry Where mine meet yours? Two poets can not live together. Verses make a world of their own when they are asleep. I have heard words whisper with each other, make love, maybe. We are insignificantly coupled. I know not how often have I fed a poetry. Are you grateful that they come? Redemption is dangerous. They come as punctuations and can unsettle you, unexpected. Beneath the poetic soul, there is another who is a labour, who constantly bears the load of words, carefully places, sweats and still does. We are too lost in the hemisphere. Lonely words - Vagrant, vagabond, orphaned ride the bridge of other words and console each other when the complacent is asleep. That is why You keep a rose inside them, You will see it died of salinity. SoUmY@