Category: Puzzled Lines

How he touches me

I’d be lying if i said he Makes me speechless

He makes my tongue forget which language to speak

When he whispers “i love you”

My heart is romanced in a thousand languages.

His hands placed on my hips,

Fingers strumming the curves on my waist

Way before his lips touch mine….

He murmurs “beautiful”

That was a bad tease, I say

He lifts me over

My legs around his waist

And then he starts to kiss me

Like he is writing our love story all over my body

Everywhere & No where

Even if you undress her,

It’s me you are searching for.

I am not sorry that I taste so good.

When the two of you make love

Still it’s my name that rolls off your tongue

Nope! Not by accident.

I became every sweet scent you smell,

I am the ghost of ghosts,

Everywhere and no where

love like a hurricane.

You became the tree,

bending beneath the weight of my wind that,

You have become so unaware of the afflictions of my absence.

Oh! How she loves you…

But you have shut your eyes to everything that,

She tastes me on your lip with every kiss.

Has she realised that everywhere she goes I have visited first?

You were wrong when you thought you could love me at your convenience

Leave when you wanted and return when it felt right.

It’s sad you are unable to rewrite the wrongs

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He keeps awake all night waiting for her

Hoping that she would return in he night

To avoid the glares during day

He looked for her everywhere in vain

With all the wealth he is still empty

Not even his love he could fill him up.

Rainy and sunny days are the same to him.

The limits of love are weird ,

He was never held hostage,

Neither did she run away .

But all he carried home where her ashes not her heart

Eight decades

His shoulders hang low

Holding up a back that ached

He moved like all his youth weighed down on him

Not even the jacket on his back fit sleekly.

He dragged his feet like they were too heavy to carry

like he never once jogged or won the walk race

But his laugh….

You could see the worry lines and how they made crosses with those of joy,

The boy his parents welcomed and the man the world asked for,

The father his children adored and the best friend they craved for

the one who’d love to rise and the one who’d love to rest.

His eyes were so heavily lidded that it was almost like talking to someone asleep,

yet he was quite alert.

When he spoke, the croak of old age was expected

But his voice was more like a sergeant major, strong and distinctly upper class.

His forehead told worries of the past and present.

But mostly they were so deeply engrained

They told of a man who had travelled through eight decades to that moment

to stand here as an old man, beaten and forlorn.

To be dismissed as “old” when he was so much more than the sum of his parts.

Age had begun to play him like ping pong

Yet even then he sung kumbaya like he had all the time in the world to sip wine.

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He entered sleep beaten

Eyes red and swollen.

His belongings wrapped in bedsheets

His night story must have been sad

And his morning to crazy for a bath

His story? I don’t know.

I didn’t ask for anxiety painted on his body

Untold stories of his life

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She liked the way the road smelled in the evenings. Like rain falling on window panes, crickets sang old songs in darkness

She liked the way brewing coffee smelled in the mornings. Like baking on the Christmas eve, Carol’s softly playing in the background.

She liked the feel of paper against her fingers. A Jack Reacher kind of read on a lazy afternoon. Imagination created on empty streets.

She liked the warmth of sunsets. Especially the part where they kissed the earth goodnight. The awaking of the moon. Silence sang a soft soul.

77 times

77 times is so many times for a heart to recover.

Tell me, is yours made of steel

Even steel would wear out I presume

All the efforts to frustrate you and instead of giving up, you grieve

Grieve for me?

After all the grace you have poured out to me you still grieve?

Yes I know who you are, the priest, mama, bible have told me.

But who are you and what have I done to deserve more than 77.

What kind of reckless love is this?

Who taught you how to love?

Did they ever tell you about the fragility of the heart?

I mean, one disappointment, just one was enough to break my heart, frustrate my love and give up on people.

And here you are after 77 forgiving, loving and hugging the same man that hurt you.

Maybe forgiving is easy but, do you know the magnitude of forgetting especially a broken trust?

Why would you even leave the 99 to look for one.

See, that’s reckless love because suppose then the 99 all disappear, then what?

Hey you….I have been told, I have read about calvary.

And now I am speaking to a very invisible you and I am standing in an empty chapel , facing the alter, assuming it’s where you reside most…

Seeking for answers because my heart and head are at battle

You were too quick answering small prayers of things I even joked about and when I am in serious need all I get is silence.

are you still attending to the one sheep

Or are you busy running the 77 campaign? (Its too good though)

Even I know that I dont deserve that much of forgiveness.

Many times I am too lost I dont even feel worthy of your presence. Too dirty and undeserving

Yet when I come before you, you receive me like the left five minutes meant nothing (reckless love)

You love fwaaa…..or maybe not.

So let’s talk about 77.

Your heart bleeds more than what you shed at calvary i assume.

One time pain is enough for many of us to throw that grace away (we are so undeserving)

Thank you for not giving up on us. I cant say that we will emulate and be exactly like you…

But forgive us for all those tantrums we throw at you

For when we feel entitled and are too arrogant to say “thank you today I still have breath!”

For when we are so unforgiving yet we commit the gravest sins that you overlook and forgive us but we never do the same.

Thank you for those so many chances because…..77 is too many times for a hearbreak

The Night Jasmine

There was a warm breeze in the car as they drove past the cemetery flowers

The somber mood brightened by the sweet Aroma of the night blooming Jasmine.

What is the flower? Cate asked holding her breath to take it all in.

It’s the night blooming Jasmine. Paul said.

The scent fell on the neutral ground along the street tracks where they had just parked.

Rubbing a tear , Cate said. Atleast she will not smell the sadness around her every night when the cemetery attendants go home. She will have a cool breeze, and a sweet aroma to inhale.

They had sat down at the cemetery most of the evening. After everyone left the burial grounds, Paul and Cate stayed and when damn fell they started out. Her dad had just been laid down at the same cemetery and while everyone else went home like nothing had happened the two siblings had no idea what to do.

They parked for a while and when the moon started to pour out its beauty, they headed home. Most sad stories open up with a beautiful view and a sweet scent of flowers.