ajulea

You left like words not yet spoken through grey cracks in whitewashed old walls, like jagged dagger lightning strikes through the silence of a shocked pause as magenta wails of thunder are muffled by dark grey clouds. You left like a walk in…

The stars shine in the same skies but I watch them through windows different from yesterday’s. The shadows which the grilles cast on fresh, newly painted walls remind me of old strange friends and new bright friendly strangers. I left behind f…

‘So you write poetry?’ Isn’t that for posers, floaters, wishful thinkers? Wait, what did you fail at?’   Disappointment tastes like zucchini fries gone cold, no ketchup on the side. It paints the room pastel, creeping up walls like snails…

I was sitting on the staircase to the old setting sun whose patchwork rust and frayed edges asked for a coat of paint. Grey cement steps stared blankly at shallow opaque puddles of almost empty colour cans. I picked up my best brush and use…

As dawn peeks in through the window in mustard light and misty garb, the sleepless night, now old and grey, an ashen shadow on the walls, floats away with the silent breeze. I am a mere spectator now, watching as time withers and wanes….

The autumn breeze caressed my cheeks and whispered, ‘Come away with me through swirling leaves of gold and green, or avenues of tangerine. In morning mist or evening dew, on magic carpet rides for two, like eagles gliding with the clouds,…

I remember you like one remembers old mixed tape tunes, part melody, part lyrics, and part sketch pen cover art. I remember you as a bedtime fable one cannot recollect the morals of, rolling off of an old book with torn, moth-bitten pag…

May I love you in silence – neither through actions, nor words? Words are like abandoned hives combed with remnants of honey, reusable and hollow. Actions, like golden spoons, taste of privileges that shooting stars cannot grant us. You…

This is not poetry. It is a confession. We were out of bread, milk, eggs and vegetables. The streets were surreal; it was a Van Gogh night. The silence was broken by hungry howling dogs two or three lanes away. My housemate and I walked…

Call me when the summer melts and rain pelts down the windows from where you launch paper planes as daylight wanes, which crash land in my yard, failing again to come in through my window. Poor weather is never right to land a flight perfect…