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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 death. You want to die holding hands. Them, they make a life full of indefinite pixels.

Would you still tread love for sanity? Let us fall in love again on the same day, in the same manner as we did before, in the ways we know not and in cherubic times.

Perhaps then you will find me in the footsteps on sands where waves did not reach, perhaps on that wrinkled bed-sheet we made love some night, perhaps in the moment when we smirked at each other in opulence or near the drowning world where only love is not a stranger...

... Perhaps, here and there, as a commoner - where only you will know. And only we.


- SoUmYa