Orgasmic blush

Shopping for groceries
with someone you love
Smelling the froth of
freshly brewed café au lait
Watching a couple embracing
in the misty fog
Reading the lines of a book
that was recommended by a lover
Rereading your lover’s old
letter and poems
Being kissed by the sun on a
particularly cold morning
Discovering a crumpled note in an old, discarded,
unwashed pair of jeans
Striking off a pending task
from your to-do list
Burning the mouth while eating
coz it just tastes so darn good!
Catching up on a conversation with an old friend
just from where we last left
Recalling the lyrics of an old song that had
gotten lost in the memory lanes
Seeing your mother smile
as you make a fresh, new cooking mistake
Looking at your reflection on the mirror
as you apply cherry red lipstick

Photography by Aimee NG

Photography by Aimee NG


Staring is not the same as looking

When you stare, you pierce my face.
My body. Sometimes, my soul. Even my thoughts.
Can you read through my mind?
Can you hear my silent protest?
Can you feel my loathe?
Can you smell my fear?
Can you taste my disgust?

When you stare, you question my confidence.
As I walk on the road with my head held high,
your stare punctures my poise. My belief
that I belong to this space.

When you stare, you make me wonder.
Are my breasts too big for your pleasure?
Or too small to entertain your pervert thoughts?
Are my legs too hairy? Or too long
To let you imagine how you’d twist them
when you assault me sexually?
Is my bindi too distracting? Does it
make you wonder if I am married or loose?
Is my sari too bright? Allowing you
to get diverted and provoked?

You haven’t said a word
and yet I hear you.
I am filled with anguish,
as I interpret your leers.
I am filled with pain,
as I become an object for you to devour.
I am filled with regret,
as I doubt my own judgment .

When you stare, you question the reason for my existence.
I wonder why I am living this very moment
Of a piercing gaze penetrating through me
Your eyes overpower me. They strip me
with each passing moment.
And, suddenly, I am naked
in the split of a second.

No,staring is not the same as looking.

A broken shadow

I smile like a lovesick moron every-time I read you.

Imagining yours when you read me.

Not what I write. But me.

My face. My body. My memories. My thoughts.

The smile vanishes soon.

Because your letter seems to say something else.

Perhaps I understood it all wrong.

Yes, it is my fault

that I felt you could…

But the letter was imaginary

The one I weaved in my heart

To quench my irrational desire

To answer my uncontrollable curiosity

To create a fictional possibility

And you always stood there

Nothing but a broken shadow

Poem dedicated to a former crush and to everyone who’s had a crush someday


Like the kajal loves the eye on which it spreads

Like the little kid loves the green balloon 

Like the employed woman  loves her salary

Like the unemployed man loves a new opportunity

Like the health freak loves salad

Like the eagle loves its flight*

Like the rabbit loves fresh carrots*


Like the dry mud loves its wetness when it rains

Like the sun loves the rainbow

Like the fire loves light

Like the river loves the sea with which it unites


Like the cook loves his spatula 

Like the guitarist loves the strings

Like the naughty girl loves her pranks


Like the washing machine loves detergent

Like the library loves books

Like the opera house loves melody

Like New York loves the ‘New’ in front of its ‘York’


Like the moon loves darkness


Yes, I love you too.


*Borrowed thoughts

The unfinished poem

This poem.

It’s absurdity,

It’s arrogance to show itself in public despite being unfinished.

It’s as if I wrote this for you. Or you wrote this for me.

Or we dictated someone to write it for us.

I have been meaning to write to you.

In red ink.

As I scribble my words, I feel drunk with power.

But I’m unable to find the right words.

Language seems to have failed me.

I know what I feel, I know what I want to say.

But, perhaps, language hasn’t invented those words yet

Words with which I can express my love,

My desire, affection and addiction for you.

I’m tired of being satisfied with the wind. 

I’m tired of hugging the pillow every time I’m in bed.

I’m tired of the fake solace the dream world offers.

And I’m tired of escaping into the world of fiction.

The poison has spread all over my body.

Nothing can be done now.

Only you can rescue me.

They say, poison kills poison.

I have been meaning to write to you.

But I’m unable to find the right words.

Unable to finish it.

Like this poem.

It’s absurdity,

It’s arrogance to show itself in public despite being unfinished.

Also published in Campus Diaries, an online portal for storytellers alike