Scotch in my Fudge

Time does flow in spurts, and in spurts do we talk
Your silence for days after my chock-a-block

Your wonderment for my poetic libations
And your jaunty sass at my labored flirtations

Your trotting the globe, and my following suit
Your New York-y poise to my Indian repute

It's been 8 long years, and I haven't your trace
I haven't your voice, no name to your face

So right this, should we not, shouldn't we make some plan?
Let's meet up in Christmas, December or Jan?

Gypsy Colours

You come in gypsy colours splattered all over
The ceiling of the room I lie in - a room
Barely 5 square memories, with zebra stripes for walls and
Liquid dreams for windows, delimited
Only by the silence that strangles a solitary
Flickering, light bulb. My fingers trace a forest
On the pillow, abounding in the thick
Canopy of our bedtime stories, buzzing
With with the hypothetical, brimming in
The moonlight silver.

You come in the smoke of a cigarette
Lit somewhere under a traffic light. Water droplets
From overhead wires and sooty cobwebs
Hang on for dear life, hoping to be immortalised
By the winter chill. Alas, its August in London
And global warming is real. I levitate
With the carbon monoxide, and nest in
The sooty cobwebs, looking for your reflection,
Clinging for dear life as the August heat
Makes me dizzy. I find your face, inverted, blurred,
A bokeh, almost, succumbing to the gravitational pull
Of the tar in the cigarette under the traffic light,
Crashing on the road, and splattering in gypsy colours.

You come in starry nights, as midnight blue
On a beach. The waves gurgle in excitement,
Drowning the rustling of leaves in the nearby thicket.
The bonfire crackles and pops, as I turn on my side
Towards the sandcastle that we built, with separate rooms
For our good and bad selves, painted in gypsy colors.

It is August in London, and there is no one
Knocking on my door. There is no sandcastle,
Just a room, smaller than 5 square memories
With flickering neon bulbs, a dream catcher and
A pillow smelling of loneliness.
I guess I am playing
With shadows in the darkness.  

Blues

"Why would you write of that girl you met in the concert,
And not me"

London simmers in July,
With all the rage of a bluesman
Hard done by a lover. Searing days
Morph into sultry nights, I see bodies
Swaying to soul, swing and funk,
Clinging to each other in a Shoreditch bar.
My eyes drift
From the barmaid to the doublebass
And back again, jousting with a few other pairs
En-route. Sometimes I sway, most times, fail to hit the target.
My mind, though, is terribly still,
5,000 miles away. Or closer.
On my mobile phone.

I don't want to leave the bar, not yet.
But I am alone. I am tentative, and
Have beer on my clothes.
I feel like having a smoke. I remember
The ash tray a stupid girl got me from Spain,
Knowing that I never smoke.
I am lurching in the road towards home, tempted
To lie down, to never reach,
When I see your reply to a text I sent
Two days ago. I call you. Suddenly, two days
Does not seem like a lifetime.
There's a swarm of memories in my head,
And honeyed love in your voice. The wee hours of morning,
Are still hot, but more temperate. I take refuge in you.

"Got my mojo working, but it just won't work on you
I want to love you so bad, I don't know what to do"

"Let's talk tomorrow", you tell me.
I submit after a bit of persuasion. Tomorrow
Never comes. Tomorrow is a promise,
That has "broken" written over it the moment it is made.
Intoxication with love makes one take that lightly.
"The thrill is gone", may be, but
I ain't free from your spell. SOS, I cry,
But somewhere between flirting
With alligators and beaches, 48 hours pass.
Perhaps, 48 is the new normal.

"Will text when I reach home"

Home, suddenly, doesn't feel like one.
London feels lonely already, and it's
Not even winter yet.
It is 5 a.m. on what looks like
A Sunday, colder than a cold heart.

Of You

Beyond shenanigans of darting eyes
Dazzling LED foam sticks, raining confetti

Grass, trampled underfoot, suffocating
In the blistering brew of dust, sweat, alcohol, ecstasy
And loneliness,
A silhouette, 5,000 miles away,
Or closer - storms right through me.
I am lighter than the laser figures
That patrol the sprawling compound
Catching unawares, darting eyes and palpitating veins,
Confining remnants of unresolved arousal
Into an eternal, Sisyphean loop.

I wake up parallel to the ground, floating
With Kaleidoscopic brass in my head, vaguely recall
The tune, and your face.
I see you behind her almost perfect body,
And spotless skin texture. We are not
Making efforts to conceal our glances.
I follow, dodging elbows, judgmental faces, and her
My fingers brush her skin while
You dissolve into wall of music that stands
Before me. I hurtle forward, crash into it
And come out bleeding into a rainbow chamber
Resonant with the echo of your zany laughter.

I follow the neon lights ending
In walls dotted with faces in your likeness. 
The air is infested with disorganized alphabets,
Traipsing from end to end, occasionally
Tracing your name. At times, mine.
I gather a few - your initials - make a pillow
And lie down, lucid dreams and all.
I feel you, the brass and your face.
May be I don't. I am losing myself, fading
Slowly with the rainbows.