Strange Touch

Everything about me has changed now

The color of my tongue

The taste of my eyes

The texture of my voice

The flavor of my tears

Everything…

Changed…

You touched me in many strange ways

Happy Children’s Day

In hunger

She tried to reach out for moon

Only well fed children dream of a playground

P.S.: Hunger kills 6000 kids in India daily.

7,200 children raped every year in India.

4353247 child laborers in India.

References:

• Breaking the Silence: Child Sexual Abuse in India, 2013. Human Rights Watch
• Starvation, Malnutrition and Malnutrition Related Deaths of Children in 15 Tribal Districts of Maharashtra - Report of an Enquiry Conducted by Dr. Lakshmidhar Mishra IAS (Retd.), Former Special Rapporteur, National Human Rights Commision in June-October, 2007. New Delhi: India
• Census 2001 & 2011. Ministry of Labour and Employment, Government of India

Classic Ultra Mild

As it burns

Between your ruby lips

I watch it with extreme envy

The burden of my unsaid feelings

Grows heavier

While the smoke from your mouth

Rises up with derisive lightness

Unexpectedly then

Only for few moments though

As you pass it to me

The momentary touch of our fingers

Makes everything worth enduring

Kiss of Love

There is no proof of love

Except for those
Who pretend there is

Kissing
Hugging
Making out
And things that follow...
Are mere expressions
Equally chosen
With unparalleled ease
By those who love
And those who hate too

Is there any proof of love
Except what one feels
Deep inside one's pining heart
Deeper inside one's longing soul

I have loved 
Without a kiss
Without a hug
Without the comforts of approval

There are too many evidences

But no proof of love... ever!

Mirror, Mirror

She stands in front of my study table

Runs her impatient fingers

Along its scratchy edges

Almost as if measuring its age

And number of odd years spent with me

“I used to love your poems

But I hate them now”

She said in a very nonchalant tone

“Of course! No one can love mirrors forever.”

I whispered from the bed

I'm Not My Poems

“You’re not like your poems”

She mocked me

As if I had to prove something to her

“Of course I am not like my poems

I don’t write them for me”

True reflection of a poet

Lies in the mind of his beloved
Not in his poems

Last Image

He smiled posthumously

All the time

In her memories