I wilt.

I wake up with a lump in my throat. Whatever I do, it stays.

My eyes are dry but my face is sullen, anticipating the tears that are yet to fall.

What is happening to me? Why won’t the feeling go away?

Depression and loneliness consume every fiber of my being.

I stare at the floor, waiting for nothing to happen as the clock ticks and time flies.

The bees buzz, flowers bloom, the sun shines as I wilt.

Of Sweet Somethings

Your eyes glow
Mine reflect it in slow-mo
We gesture wildly
In sync with our voices
That ring with the electricity of a child’s-
Loud, uncouth, yet so real.
This is more intimate than the slowest slow dance
The hottest kiss
Because it’s a snapshot
Of who we are
And who we will be
In the long shot.
We will grow old and gray together
My breasts will sag, your belly will expand
But that spark-
The sparkle in your eye-
Will outlast the norms, the mores
And mine will reflect it in slow-mo.

I haven’t been in love. Ever. But this is how I imagine it will be.

Homies that got away.

I’m talking about the people whose paths you cross, but that’s about it. You probably knew them really really well at one point, shared superficial inside jokes and memories that were so friggin photogenic. You know their favourite TV Shows, movies, songs, food and subjects. You know what they thought of that book you talked about, or that movie you watched together and that scene you couldn’t stop laughing at. You’ve probably texted them more than you’ve talked to them face-to-face and you gradually stop talking to them.

You probably don’t know where they were born or even their middle name. You may not know who they’ve crushed on or why they’re pissed off or when they’re depressed. You may whine about things together, but only if it’s random or hilarious to whine about it. You haven’t crossed that line beyond which it’s okay to act like a bitch or say intense things and pour your soul out to them.

Why?

You hang out in different social circles and while having mutual friends isn’t a pre-requisite to bond, it makes it harder to go beyond talking about certain things. Talking about certain people would feel weird. Bringing up certain topics that are common knowledge to everyone might feel too ‘obvious’ to bring up or like prying.

You may have sounded weirdly formal or corny when you first started getting to know them. And you aren’t weirdly formal or corny. It feels weird and fake to suddenly turn into who you think you are. Like Ross Gellar “phasing out” of his fake British accent.

You don’t really have a lot in common with this person. It’s day-to-day activities and classes and routine that unites you and gives you things to talk about. Once you don’t have these things that push you together, it’s sudden and surprising- but all that’s left is forced chit-chat and awkward silences.

Or sometimes, time and distance just makes you forget them and makes things fade with time.

Sometimes though, things.. like Facebook asking me to ‘reconnect’ with them, or texts, or old e-mails, or old presents and photos.. make me think about these people I once knew and just.. think. We could’ve been close but we aren’t. Or we were on the brink of close. Almost Best-friends-forever.

And I wonder what they’re doing and I miss them.

Lost & Found

In the last year I’ve managed to lose this really cute pencil pouch gifted by my friend, a shiny green wallet with my Landmark membership card in it (gifted by the same friend), my copy of Anne Frank signed by AR Rahman years ago before Slumdog happened, textbooks, coins, this yellow and black mechanical pencil and other things that meant so much to me.

I can’t get how these things just disappear! Where do they go? Do other people come across them and wonder where it came from and what kind of a person the owner was? Do they collect in this random place labeled LOST in the middle of nowhere? Because I can totally picture that!

It’s weird finding things as well. Like I borrowed Brat Farrar from my aunt and she asked me to keep it. It looked really old and looked like it had once been a library book with due dates dating fifty years back! It has passed hands, continents (yup, from USA to India and maybe places in between), second hand stores (possibly) and the folds, tears and coffee stains probably marked by these things, memories that probably mean so much to someone out there.

Perhaps someone’s thinking about Brat Farrar now, and picturing the dog eared copy that wasn’t so dog eared then… my copy, filled with history, a past more overwhelming than mine.

New day, potential rains.

tomorrow, you think,
as clear skies greet you
yet again,
and the birds chirp,
the sun sets,
the night is cool,
schedules are as set.
tomorrow, you think,
as water drips from above,
and the fan’s in motion
and it’s not enough.
tomorrow, you think,
waiting for the first real spell of rain,
the smell, the taste of it
as it serenades you outside your window
and all you can do is watch,
as it postpones the tests, plans, events,
bringing in chaos, prolonging the silence
you desperately need.
tomorrow, you think,
but it never comes when it’s called.