Talk is cheap

Mindless chitchat
   Draining me
At a loss for words.
       Consuming each syllable, this
monotonous heard
No place for strange and lucid thoughts--
fermenting in the absurd.

Sunset Strip

Because this dance, with you and I, has left me in a trance.
My bewilderment replaced by your chivalry-
Will I finally get the chance?
To waltz with all those many few who fell for true love's grip,
and dip with midnight prancers
on this moonlit strip.

Pistachios and Prose

When we were children-

Noticing light through specs of dust,

Time slowing like monotony-

bodies feeling heightened sensations: it was too cold to play outside- skin hurts- we squirm as it warms-up: tingling feels like torture.

It's the little things, you said, that make me stay with him.

Unraveling the easter-coloured tissue paper, making up for the big things is his art form, and I am dazzled at the sun seeping through like stained glass.

It was not like this before, but I eased into it- the metronome slowly built a gait and now we are galloping through this thing we are meant to savour. Except, with lightning speeds, the colours like neon bulbs, meld into each other, everything in life looks like an 80s music video. It hurts my teeth.

But when I look into her eyes, her grace is the same. The warmth in her gaze is kept- with ambers of undying hope. 
Which, should have been lost. Could have been lost. May have been lost, long ago, but saved in the nooks of her luggage. Probably quickly packed in a roll of socks- held up between a cellophane of saffron and a bag of pistachios.

We fled, you know. But they don't.

And then we say: there's no more room.

....

Our hearts have shrivelled into the same size

as those

same specs of dust.

Spirits

There is a space, a room in your head, where spirits can roam- undisturbed.

They find the path from through you spine and slowly walk up the curve.

They knock three times at the base of your skull where the light shines and pools.

They enter through, find peace from snares-

and takeoff their dusted overcoats.

Some have wings, others just float, and some need neither nor.

They are related to you, through this web we weave, through this thing we call life.

Not having lived but once- we’ve collected them in all our dimensions of time.

They gently come, to disturb no one, but dwell with those they know:

We’ve forgotten them, in our conscious state, in this conscious state: our home.

Unaware, we lead these busy lives, these lives made worthy through busy.

But when the day leads into night and busy bleeds by attrition- we catch a furtive glimpse, a subconscious lift.

Because, we cannot reach the final end without the very beginning,

for that, my friend, has always been the one that’s everlasting.

The person within, the you that is all accumulating, will always be remaining. 
She knows of all the creatures who come up the curve and tell you to stop spinning.