Will you be mine?

In a corner of the office sits the librarian. Not the bespectacled librarian you are accustomed to. He guards his ice-cold library with a 'keep out' sign. Inside lie hundreds and thousands and ten-thousands of dusty, black tapes. He clacks away on his computer, shuffles through the office,plays a song or two off his speakers. Some days he reads. And, some times he hums out a old hindi song or two.

Behind glass walls, sits a frizzy-haired, freckled face young lady. Some days she smiles. And, most times she angrily hurries from one meeting to another. To another. In her cut-away denim jacket, one day. And, a long-snug striped vest the next.

Ephemerally, they come together. 'Chai breaks,' lunch-time, that sort of thing. Their two-worlds caressed. From one day into another, then another. A ring of diamonds soon glistened her hand. He beamed. She beamed. He wept. Profusely.

"Will you be mine?" he asked.
Not a word was said.

Tum chale jaaoge to sochenge
Tum chale jaaoge to sochenge
Humne Kyaa Khoyaa
Humne Kyaa Paayaa

Mumbai winter and warm tea for company

Monday afternoon rolls in with simmering hot ginger tea and Mumbai winter for company.The weekend has been near perfect. Lounging around home, sorting and re-sorting piles of clothes. And, shoes. Sifting through rubbish Saturday news and reading and re-reading smses. Hand-washing the 'handle with care,' stacking the 'to be read' and listening and re-listening to Mazzy Star. Picking the perfect from the '30% off' and splurging on the yummiest bling-canvas shoes. Small joys.

Carefully oiling out my now perfect black curls, painting my toe nails orange-pink whilst listening to women chatter about other women's sordid lives. Sitting, waiting, wishing. Some days, I am so naive. On other days, I haughtily turn you away, but I want to be there. But, oh, how can I be?

Sitting in with my laptop, watching a movie. The volume turned down so low, as If I am afraid. Oh wait, I was afraid. I am afraid. Afraid of the unknown."The cross is mightier than the switchblade." I almost give in to love. Or, do I? The afternoon brings on an evening of rigorous exercise. Still, I am afraid.

Maybe, today, you will see the ground beneath my feet?
Or, maybe you will forever shatter it.

Pools of sorrow waves of joy
are drifting thorough my open mind
Possessing and caressing me
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world

Love again.

It hurts. It hurts to let the wind ruffle my hair and the wind singsong your voice into my ear. It hurts to sit by you at a coffee-store or a bar, perhaps and chatter. This way and that. It hurts to look into your eyes, it hurts to look at you. It hurts to linger over a text-message and even a picture. It hurts to carry you in my head, my heart everywhere I go. It hurts to know you're watching me. Intently. It hurts to criss-cross my legs while gently, ephemerally caressing yours. It hurts to allow the night to carry our love. Some days, into tomorrow. It hurts to smile at all the lovely people in your life and know I may never see them again. It hurts to slide up into your car and watch the un-happy through the glass window, conceited, like we are in a happy space. It hurts to peck you a gentle kiss...sometimes, even, to say goodnight. It hurts to see you smile, will I be able to do that again? It hurts to let the city lights set, while we are still walking. Hand in hand, like lovers lost. It hurts to dream, doodle your name, doll-up for you. It hurts to let a song remind me of you. A line speak of you. A moment remind me of you. A t-shirt smell of you. It hurts. It hurts, to love again.

Run

I'm running.
Running from the past.
Running from the pain.
Running with a floppy Santa hat.

My two-bits for the day

And, how is it that your feeling today?

Like everything is fleeting and that something, someone besides memories should stay.

Growing up

I wonder if when we grow up is when we stop to ask questions - How long? Until when? Would you stay? I wonder if when we grow up is when we stop to say please. Please don't go away tonight. And, I wonder if when we grow up is when we stop to say Go Away. Because, then we're afraid you wouldn't stay.

The Grown up and the child

There's a fair amount of me, that's all grown up. A bit of a lost soul, many broken relationships, the bit in me that looks, absorbs, writes are some reasons. And, there's a tiny piece of me that's still a child. Aching to be loved, adored, prance around in child-like ridiculiosness.
Isn't love really about respecting and loving the grown up in him and adoring, protecting the child in him? Isn't that really what love is all about?