On one of those days when the clear sky brings about a lot of storm, I sit down writing for my own rebirth. Lovers die every day, on every inch that remains between an embrace, on every moment that retains itself in pauses. A poetry never starts with ink, it starts with a lot of blood. To whom, for whom I write is as faceless as the cloud, as silent as it traverses by, as fascinating as the full moon and as wholesome as nights. Do incoherent pictures make a collage? Sometimes they do, the very hand that picks them up and settles them in a frame. Such frames find life in carelessly taking a nap on someone's shoulder in a day train, losing someone momentarily and that growing lump in throat as you run and irrationally scream, while you hold hands and roam around aimlessly in the bazaar and bargain under dim lampshades, when you travel to a virgin beach before sunrise and dreams come true, when you sit on rocks to see the night sea alluring you to d...
Some Memories are hard to hold on So I put them on words.