If we were together

If we were together,

Instead of you in H--

And I in Delhi,

Here is a list of things we would do.

The thought is delightful,

Because I see

The sun beating down

And us walking down a hot road beside a lake,

You in a kurta and I in my faded salwar kameez.

It is a summer love.

Summer is when the best things always happen.

Then we watch a film

In a cooled cinema hall.

I come out feeling angry, while you

Drown in superlatives about the director’s mastery,

The actor’s dedication, and the ‘deeper meaning’

Of the film,

While I am like, ‘Duh! Everyone knows that.

Does it even bear saying?’

You ignore me, maybe even ask me to shut up.

I am a little shocked, then delighted.

What would we do,

If we were together,

Instead of you in H--

And I in Delhi?

If I had a room of one’s own,

If I were on my ownio?

On a hot, hot Saturday,

The fan would swing above our heads,

We would get bored and banter,

Make out a little,

Watch a film,

Be a little desultory

And fall asleep.

If it were a balmy evening,

Like the one on which we met,

We would smoke a joint

And get high

And laugh a lot

And argue and fight,

My heart would sway a little in fear,

But then hopefully it would relax

And I would go to bed at peace.

(What a shite piece of writing this is)

Added:

If you were in Delhi,

Or I were in H—

We would go to the old city.

Since it would be summer,

5 o’clock would find us

On the courtyard of Jama Masjid.

Before that, the moment

When the vastness of its symmetry

Reveals itself for the first time.

Inside, tentative steps,

Sharp breaths as the hot gasps of heat

Hit your feet.

Wind in my hair, the sun going down,

The sharp outline of an arch

Against a darkening blue sky.

As not knowing newer roads

Make one end up in Rome,

We would walk into Karim’s courtyard.

Selfie [sort of]

By the *sexy sadistic spanker*

Selfie [sort of]

It's okay to feel sad.To want comfort. To feel the urge to make contact, physical or otherwise. It's okay to cry. It's okay to feel like shit, like you just can't go on. It's okay to want to hope, to have hope, to feel betrayed. It's okay if it is an emotional roller coaster. It's okay to want to get off and yet not be able to. It's okay to want to hold on and let go at the same time. It's good to write. It's good to feel. It's good to numb the pain, with ice cream and watchseries and cats. It's okay to want to escape. It's okay to bother friends at odd hours. It's okay to feel angry, try to feel angry and fail. It's okay to indulge. It's okay to feel depressed. It's okay to have mood swings, to sing songs in voice subdued by tears. It's okay to once again love oneself with that old, newfound tenderness. It's okay to indulge in the breakup ritual of gifting oneself Calvin and Hobbes. It's okay to write letters, carefully composed and recomposed to oneself in one's head. Love letters. It's okay to want to escape into that reality where you can erase all your memories and yet have a happy ending. It's okay to want to move on, not want to move on, to be undecided. It's good to run, to laugh, to cook, to eat, to scratch the chins of cats and hug them to sleep. It's okay to long for a room of one's own, metaphorically and physically. It's okay to cry. Really, it is. It is okay to feel like shit. It's okay to take comfort in small things like the softness of the pillow and the purr of cats and watching cat videos. It's okay to feel banal and profound, melancholy and manic, hungry and satiated, hot and cold, driven and bored, inspired and insipid. It's all okay, all in a day's work. And it is going to be alright even if it that doesn't quite feel right, you melodrama queen, you deluded moron, you hopeless romantic, you wonderful, complex. complicated human thing. I love you, as always.

Living is so difficult. I am completely tired and out of my wits. I wish someone would show me the way to getting what I want. Today, I am not even sure what I want. My mind is an emotional void. Someone I like does not seem to like me back enough, or my liking switches off abruptly, which is almost as hard to accept as not being liked. I am too tired to want to meet other people. Online dating is so tiring: what are we looking for in such frenzied fashion? At such speed, you can barely even seek out sex, and that does not seem to matter soon enough. You are left with the rag and bone shop of the heart and the one thing you don't want to do is work it some more. But there is the anxiety that if not this, then what? It's exactly the very worst thing to do in the circumstances: go running about when you should be recouping. I feel stupid and non-adult.
I can barely register the 2 things that matter and prop up my world: my work and ma's health.
Scary, no? Scary, scary, scary, scary, scary.

Darling

Darling,

You are half a stranger.
How does one fall in love with a stranger
Over three conversations
And one night when everything
Came together perfectly?

Your fillums,
Your love
For talking about yourself,
Your voice on the phone
As deep as when we spoke
In my room
Through the night,

How you go on
And on
About the same thing
How miserable you are
How bored you are
How desperate you sound
When you call me
(On those two nights)

It will pass
When life starts
For you again.

Will you forget me
Ignore me
Will I be an adult about it?
Will I push you away
From today
So you can
Never hurt me?

Will it be
A weekend love
Played out over the phone
Drawing on the memories
Of a perfect ordinary night?

I am falling in love with you.
It is a very uncool, uncouth
Thing to say
In the world of flinty singletons
Protecting armoured hearts.

I might hate you tomorrow,
As I already do a little
In anticipation
Of the pain
I am about to inflict on myself.

But now,
Deep down,
Loving you (what I know of you)
Feels perfect.

P.S.
Filmmakers are a sodden, self-obsessed lot.
They get depressed, they drink
I think you are a borderline alcoholic,
Or going that way with bold and sure steps.
You have no idea how to hold someone
So much smaller than you.
But we played very well, and very long
That night.
In that, we were a perfect match:
A size ten and a half.