Rosé all day


Rosé all day”, she chimed, right before she walked out of the café;
lipstick stains on her to-go cup and coffee-breath fogging up the morning chill.

I wish I could do this all day.

Swim in the ocean in the pouring rain.

Eat oranges in a field in sunny Paris.

Catch the last flight back home.

Drink another mocha latté.

Anything but spend the next eight hours stuck in a cubicle;
waiting, waiting –

For 5 pm.
For the weekend.
For next year.
For God knows what.


Aren’t photoframes strange ?
Or is it the pictures they hold ?

It’s almost unfair, the wistfulness of it all.

That one moment when everything was perfect, when the sun hit his face just right, when all the colours of fall were in bloom just enough and the wind blew your hair out as if you were in a movie. It’s not fair to hang up that one picture-perfect moment in your living room and watch it gather dust, day after day.

Because the truth is that we’re not in a movie, and the leaves of autumn turn brown faster than we realize.

Sooner or later, the cracks spread deep and far. And then one day, after the eye of the storm has passed, you’re left alone in a broken home.

Your clothes are stuffed in cardboard boxes all over the apartment and you’re on your knees, tears staining your cheeks as you cry for what used to be. And you spend the night on the kitchen floor because you just can’t bring yourself to take the pictures down, scared that the bare walls might just be little more than what you can bear to see.

she looks like art

like a summer haze
setting the horizon on fire

like the evening skies of
her childhood’s monsoons
that made her fall in love with
the music the Rain has to offer

like the champagne
dripping off her lips,
forming little trails like
rivers fed by the Sin within,
rolling down the hollows of her clavicles

a reminder of days well spent,
leather-like skin acting as armour
against the pain;

She earned the scars and dents
on her bronze,
just like the pale, soft skin
in nooks and corners
the sun forgot to burn

Shades of wrong
or shades of right ?
No one knows for sure.
Because she is
the Sadist and the Masochist,
complete on her own.

Brown eyes melt into gold
when the sun hits them just right;
When the heavens
unleash the fury within,
and the downpour has
made her heady with it’s earthy scent,
all her colours break free;

Seamless, endless –
like the kaleidoscope
on an artist’s palette

The Rain is a muse for so many.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky enough,
you might just be able to
lean over your balcony
and catch a glimpse of her –

standing there as the cars go by;
hair dripping wet,
raindrops rolling off her face,

a piece of Art in a world that doesn’t care.

Kneel or Burn

When you left,
the sky cried

It’s tears flooded my room,
and I hid under my bed
and closed my eyes shut.

After the storm passed
and the windows stopped shuddering,
I crawled out;
My face grimy from the dried tears.

I got drunk that night,
but the vodka’s bitterness
reminded me too much of you

I stumbled into the bathroom
and my smeared makeup
reminded me of you

I crawled out into the open
and the night sky
reminded me of your storm

But if you thought this story
was about you,
You’re wrong.

I gave you all,
and you gave me pain.
So now I’ll hunt your hiding places down,
And I’ll set them up in flames.

Because neither of us
deserved what we got.
You didn’t deserve me.
And I, you.

But you should’ve known better
than to play games with a girl
who’s been playing for so much longer.

Holy water couldn’t put the fire
that I’m about to start out.
It’s made home in me
for far too long now.
No flood you bring will help you now.
The flames will just spread,
flapping, begging, praying –
for you.

Damsel in Control

Chipped black nailpaint like a summer night sky,
with the warm haze running through her veins
Silver rings on her cold, numb fingers,
like a frozen moonlit night the wolves howl into

Lilies and thorns
Lilac and black
Love and incest
Heartache and murder

She’s the girl who takes
her shoes off to run wild
in the fields with the summer fireflies,
And to walk barefoot
on the pavement when it’s just rained

But she’s also the girl
who has fistfights in downtown nightclubs,
And drinks cheap beer
with her people in the alleyways;

Child of the Night,
When she walks out her door at midnight,
the Wind cries out into the hollow darkness,
warning the boys with
beautiful smiles and wicked eyes
to never try to tame her down.

That is, of course, if they don’t fancy burnt fingertips.



Some say that time is a human concept. Something that we made up to try and make sense of the enigma that is life.

Others try to capture it on their wrists.

Personally, I don’t know where I stand. Coffee does cool faster on chilly winter evenings but I have never really believed in letting the tick-tock of two needles set the course of my life.
Before I left for college, my father said to me, “The next four years will fly away before you realise. Make the most of them.”

There have been many days since then when I felt paralyzed. The darkest cloud refused to rain down and clear the horizon. There have also been weekends that seemed to be over in the blink of an eye.

What I’ve really come to believe is that how fast the hour trickles depends on something that can’t be measured or captured.

It depends on ‘it’.

‘It’ is the abyss we’re staring at.

‘It’ is the exam you have to pull an all-nighter for, or the flight back home that you’ll catch tomorrow. ‘It’ could be the dozen test papers due tomorrow, the laundry that needs washing, the dishes that have to be done or that road-trip with your friends you’ve been planning for forever.

It is that evening you spent playing dumb-charades with your friends, sitting on the cool grass, gazing up at an endless blue sky.

It is also that hour you spent crying in the washroom at 3 A.M., with crimson running down your legs.

The cards have been dealt; the hand, invisible and unknown. What we decide to with our ‘it’ makes up a tiny fleck of our vast infinity.

But no matter what we do, whether we screw up or not, at the end of it all, we’ll always have a story to tell; and sometimes, a scar to hide.

Airport thoughts.

You know what’s hard?
That moment at the airport when you walk away after the last goodbye, knowing you won’t know any home for a long time.

You know what’s heartbreaking?
When you’ve taken flight and that one song you heard on New Year’s day, watching the pretty lights from last night glisten, comes to mind and it takes everything in you to not break down.

You know what’s bittersweet?
When you almost hear your mother in your voice, but home is an infinity away.

You know what’s numbing?
Having to cry yourself to sleep on your first night away from home; not because you feel sad, but because you can’t feel anything at all.