Blank-ened!

What do I say
about nothingness
when what there is to it is what is not there.

Its like this.
There's a you
and there's a me
and there's the breath
that transforms air and its chemistry into life.
From nothingness.

When eye meets eye
and hand meets hand,
there're those miniscule droplets of tears and sweat
that contain tiny transparent bubbles, like little, self sufficient worlds.
In nothingness.

As your heart melts in moments of peace, bliss, anguish or pain,
fathom the depth of its hollowness,
in the vacuum of your existence,
you'll know all you wanted to -

from nothingness to nothingness!

Thought

When eyes yearn for the voluntary blink
and gaze meets the dot-particle,
there's a blur that appears,
then disappears,
behind the round world
that sways in its untrackable orbit
throbbing in musical rhythm.

Thought is nothingness that soul's magic transforms into heartbeat...

Fireworks...

Blobs of golden shimmering lights
alighting
from the volcanic altitudes of a baking fire
charring
the charcoal like haze that smoke can create
pealing
layers of morning, one by one.

As coffee beckoned me in Kamat today,
amid the darkness of the evening,
I saw sparkling lights
and fireworks
from a tandoor!

English!

flows from the gut to the cut
like feelings from one heart facing another,
as if making an inverted 'U' in the
----ec----
---j--t---
--a---o--
-r------r-
t--------y
of their bodies' lungs...

English...
transmits a fluid of emotions
in what otherwise seems like a dry, dusty lane!

Just being!

Throbbing eyes
yawning facial muscles
lazy smiles
fond rebuke
fake anger
peals of laughter
pitched back-n-forths
turns with chores
coffee making and coffee sipping and coffee breaking

serious talk and near serious talk
random banter
eyes in eyes
silent prayers
fondling shoulders
soft kisses
warm hugs
melting hearts
teary byes

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
home is the only place that makes me feel at home
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

White Balloons...

in my backyard
pierce the hot summer air
to fly
like little angels just uprooted from the soil in which they grew;

against the bare blue sky and sharp amber sunlight,
they swing and sway
sing and stay
rise and rule ray after ray

honing, imbibing, assimilating,
colour
from all around like a bare stick encircled layer by layer with pink cotton candy.

White balloons in hot summer air
are sometimes yellow, red, blue, violet, scarlet and green.

Only sometimes.

In the swirl of breath...

...you're like that invisible particle,
unthinkably small,
upsettingly significant,
imaginarily existant,
cruelly pervasive,
menacingly impervious,
and
restlessly all around.

In the swirl of my breath,
you're the particle,
its speed, momentum, density, mass
and
everything around it...
around
me