The blind crow cawed all night, scavenging light in the dark. #140Story

Her eyelids beat like wings; her sleep flies away. #140Story

70something and wide-eyed, she asks, Is that the bad guy?
80ish and smiling, he calls, Shh, I can’t hear the dialogue. #140Story

Sunday deals her hours carelessly, between drags of smoke,
puffing her coiffure, and smudge-lipped sips of wine. #140Story

Doubt works hardest in the dead of the night. #140Story

He listens to sleep tiptoe in guilty anklets. #140Story

Cynicism is: The sambar packet’s extra rubber-band. The stepny on a scooter.
The un-discarded phone number. The twelfth man. #140Story

Shake a piggy bank before breaking it, feel empty pockets bottom-first;
For hope of disappointment, is hope seldom disappointed. #140Story

The caterpillar walks to music, its legs like tumbling piano-keys. #140Story

Your sweet nothings, and the dancing crumb on your upper-lip. #140Story

After her first day at school, the little girl went home with a headful of lice,
but no friends to count. #140Story

Pocketing his bus-fare, swallowing his pride, he thumbed a lift.
A kind scooter dropped him, and all his coins, all the way home. #140Story

The spaces between words are the gaps in their seating; the pauses in their dancing;
the lull in their conversations. #140Story

Pirouetting cotton candy. Giddy little ballerina. #140Story

“Happy Teacher Day Miss!” he beamed, in an inked shirt, darned shorts and
last-evening-knocked teeth. Gifts come in strange boxes. #140Story

undoing is and her sweet He slow. #140Story

Her back to him, she sleeps. His feelings, unworded;
her hair in yet-to-be-invented punctuations. #140Story

Runaway Poppins. 40something-year-old knees popping to retrieve them. #140Story

The rain hissed, the tethered goats bleated, and the rowdy dogs barked back all night.
The next morning, only the eagles cried. #140Story

Every father’s waist aspires to be as wide as the reach of his son’s arms. #140Story

Empires and castles with royal elephants are built with
summer holidays, teddy bear ministers, and mosquito nets. #140Story

He gives. She gives in. #140Story

We are seldom imprisoned by walls. We are imprisoned by windows. #140Story

Married on paper, with an ampersand ring. #140Story

When not splashing in the waves, or painting tufts of cloud,
the lighthouse twirls round and round, dizzy and giggling. #140Story

Libraries have fat gilded tomes for knowledge,
and open windows for dreaming. #140Story

He waits for her like a second waterdrop does:
to collect in its arms the gingerly fickle first,
and fall in giddy momentum. #140Story

Underlined eyes. Highlighted cheekbones. Bold lips.
He takes furious notes of her face. #140Story

Dry as bone she stands, toes curled, in a puddle of her clothes. #140Story

Fingers climbing staircases of toes, to stand giddy on the height of restraint. #140Story

He lights a cigarette; the air draws her eyes with kohl. #140Story

Text-relieved tickets. Bottle caps. Context jokes. What ifs.
The things we hold dear are surety; our hearts, emotional junkyards. #140Story

The bottle has held English blueberry jam, Ooty uniform buttons,
delicate hairpins and now, just-pinched gooseberries. #140Story

He asks her to hold his hand, so his feet can still find the ground. #140Story

Four chambers of heart. Four ways, broken apart. ‬#140Story

And we decided we’d call it “falling in love” because there’s never
rhyme, reason, sense or season to hold onto,
or hold us back.‪#140Story

We’re ever so eager to give away our hearts.
Perhaps they’re too heavy for us to hold. #140Story

Soon we’ll know, that in our lives, we matter the least.
For the promises we made to ourselves,
were the promises we didn’t keep.#140Story

Wars in gnaws of hunger. Defences torn thin.
Territories claimed in throbbing red. Quiet conquests of skin. #140Story

A string of jasmine buds later, her face blooms. #140Story

He purses his lips to keep loose pearls,
coinage, and change from spilling. #140Story

In his approaching shadow, her water lily eyes droop. #140Story

To have too little to halve. To halve too little to have. #140story

The meaning of flowers changes
according to which side of the cemetery wall
he gives them to her. #140story

Then he was owned. Now he is possessed. #140story

She offers quiet words. He serves the sentence. #140Story

The waters of their skins rushed to meet,
but fell through the gaps between their fingers. #140Story

When her warm hand reached for his,
he feared for his butterfingers.#140Story

Slippery chins, smooth shoulders,
shiny noses, knees. Our rounded edges are proof:
we’re made with weathering, built by corroding.#140Story

The glass is half-full of emptiness. #140Story

He watches light & dark throw punches at each other.
Sparks fly. Dark buckles. Light bleeds.
In her window, a tubelight’s come on.#140Story

He left her, with a blooming bouquet of
unfurled tissues at her feet.
Romance is a doing of the eyes. #140Story

Eggshells of composure. #140Story

Someone’s slowly stirring in night blue poison, in Evening’s drink.#140Story

Raindrops make hollow sounds when they knock at my chest.#140Story

She’d give something. He’d get something.
Little wonder, hurt hurts both ways. #140Story with @clownasylum.

We are as transient as our utterances, as opaque as our unsaids.#140Story

Her skin is so deeply the colour of earth,
he can smell the moments before she begins to cry. #140Story

We are born of extraordinary circumstances. We will find
extraordinary means. #140Story

In some homes, bottles, bills, books with banned names,
low-cut clothes, letters, and numbers are secrets.
In most, feelings are.#140Story

All the silences of the sentence crowd
at the beginning of it. Like unfulfilled dandelions. #140Story

Bustling down busy streets, bumping into wayside
heart-hawkers wearing their wares on their sleeves. #140Story

We are built on the waiting cells of our cancers.
Like the bits of sand making glass that pebbles break. #140Story

His spine’s the tinkling xylophone, his pulse, the wavering drum,
his breathing’s the whistling, her thoughts are the hum. #140Story

For every nerve-ending that fires,
every plosive that pops at lips,
every clap of blinking eyes –
there are explosions in the sky.#140Story

His nose is a crestfallen flower: drooping stalk, petals downcast.
His eyes, basil leaves that end in dew. His misery. Her art. #140Story

Travel is sometimes what’s outside myriad windows.
And sometimes, what’s reflected in them. #140Story

Her lips defy geometry. His thoughts defy modesty. #140Story

Distance, is not finding his musk
in the smell of her hair. #140Story

Birthday parties. Suspect letters. Or when he leaves.
Surprise is hardly what happens, but for how long it doesn’t. #140Story

Half-full teacups. Half-empty conversation. #140Story

Grandmothers are angels
who give away their wings to grandchildren. #140Story

Without him, she is half an apple. Wobbly footed.
Core exposed. Severed seeds.
A browning half-sin. #140Story

For every action, there is equal reaction.
For every balloon that escapes gravity’s clutch,
a bird sits on a branch to watch. #140Story

Possession is a woman creating him – bone, muscle, skin.
Possession is a woman destroying him – skin, muscle, bone.

Many I’m-just-a-normal-person promises later,
she is yet to meet a normal person. #140Story

Dejection walks in dancing shoes. #140Story

Doctors conclude that the leading cause for
both narcissism, and self-loathing,
are the same: mirrors. #140Story

Home is somedays inside the door,
looking hungrily out – and somedays outside the door,
looking longingly in. #140Story

In reverence to the ways of her fingers, his hair stood on end.#140Story

Where is our kingdom? When will it come? #140Story

The slide of her shoulder, curl of nostril, depths of hair, ends of lashes.
He envied light for holding her in places
he couldn’t.#140Story

Power is his ability to make her deliriously happy. #140Story

He basked in the already-11 sun. Time ran by. Grabbing her by the waist,
he asked, “What’s the hurry love? Got some place to go?”#140Story

And at the end of evolution is humanity.
Our actions, no longer in the bounds of who we are.
But finally, in what we do. #140Story

He’d finally bridged his head and heart with irrefutable logic:
Here is now. Now is she. She is here. #140Story

She lifted the waves of her hair from the pillow, bound them
in a swirling whirlpool, and left,
with him struggling mid-ocean. #140Story

He advised his patients to talk to themselves. They were, after all, the best,
most sympathetic listeners they could ever find. #140Story

He was the white of snow. She was the cold of it.

He broke open the lock on the chest, sliced the eaves of neglect,
cleared films of dust, and drank deeply the memory of her smell.#140Story

Sparks are fireflies of luminous intensity. #140Story

We are poems. Defined by unsaids, metered by caution,
metaphors for kin.
Our breaths, like spaces between words, catch before a -#140Story

Reading braille on the sealed lips of a blank sheet of paper.#140Story

The spaces between his ribs are moulds for her fingers, the edge of his cage,
for her thumbs – to open a humble gift he gives her.#140Story

The most mesmerizing thing about a woman is her hair.
Pan, trapped in Saturn’s, watches her through this veil eternally. #140Story

Fallen apples aren’t proof of gravity.
Knees in surrender are.#140Story

Waiting is most days, the black veil.
On some days, the brown eyes.#140Story

He cast a line in her ear today.
It tugged. He reeled it in. #140Story

Growing up is a problem
even her mother can’t solve. #140Story

On some days, love is who holds in their hate longer.
On other days, hate is who holds back their love. #140Story

If the heels are the beginnings, and the head,
the end – the neck is the thickness of love. #140Story

He boxed with his shadow. And lost both ways. #140Story

Sinews of muscle and strings of nerves bind us.
Brittle bones set us free. #140Story

Giddy circles of argument.
Triangle of her skin between seam of top and beginning of jeans.
Square expression. Love is geometry.#140Story

She promised herself she’d leave,
before the seat of her stockings could fray.
The breeze was so lovely, she forgot them today.#140Story

He came to an incomplete home,
after an unresolved conflict,
with unfinished popcorn. #140Story

Improbability ran, and ran down several zeros,
before rushing up to embrace one certainty. #140Story

I held a box of the universe for my son to pick just 3 things out,
assured that no matter what he picked,
he could get by with.#140Story

He slept, arms like he’d serenaded her
at her window that evening.
She slept, legs like she’d run away him. #140Story

The man who knew too much married the most
intelligent person he’d ever met: the woman
who knew enough. #140Story

Too proud to beg, too honest to steal, the wayside poet
rummaged through piles of broken promises
outside effusive men’s homes.#140Story

On most days, he can’t forgive her.
On other days, he can’t forget her. #140Story

He watched her wipe her nailpolish with tufts
of acetone-drunk cotton. His bride gone,
now his wife. #140Story

Mothers fold it in the smell of their sarees.
Fathers line it in their jackets’ inner pockets.
Home, is hide and seek. #140Story

They sat at the edge of reason.
The view was breathtaking.#140Story

As far as earworms went, his favourite
was her breathing. #140Story

He didn’t leave. Not because he had no place to go to.
He didn’t leave. Because then, he’d have no place
to leave from. #140Story

When on guard, she binds her hair in an aperture that threatens
to catch him considering the vulnerability of her neck. #140Story

She’d never fully left, until even her absence had left. #140Story

The unsaid lies behind the wall of his skin.
She is armed, with fingertips. #140Story

Her plait had come loose. Her rubber band was in his hand.
And her tears unravelled like ribbons down her cheeks. #140Story

According to her, every feeling in the world has a name.
This feeling, she decided, was called daddy. #140Story

He woke to an empty pillow scrawled with curly stray taunts.#140Story

His eyes followed her all the way up to disappointment. #140Story

In the age of modesty, her hair and his fingers are misfits. #140Story

He tenderly confessed, “I play the organ at church.”
The prostitute burst out laughing. #140Story

For sale. A nun’s habit. Never used. #Hemingway #140Story

His tongue ran through his mind, stirring hordes of sleepy words
aflutter. Then, they settled on the telephone line between them.

He knew age would slide down her sides and settle thick at her
hips. She knew age would gather round his ankles and so, he’d
stay. #140Story

To her, nothing around him could be inanimate. His
pillow dimpled under his head. His t-shirt drummed at his
chest. #140Story

The night’s countless hours he had to kill. And yet, he made
himself instant noodles. #140Story

Just like everyone else, he’d inherited his mother’s self-doubt,
and his father’s self-destruction. #140Story

The sun juiced her lap’s diaphanous skin. The car seats
smelled hot. She sucked at the orange candy that didn’t
run. #Yoshimoto #140Story

Their boat bobbed on his sleeping desires. The
boards creaked and groaned under the weight of her
tread. #McEwan #140Story

When played in reverse, they didn’t fall in love. They
bubbled up. They loved in ferocity, before they never met
again. #Vonnegut #140Story

He woke up on the wrong side of bittersweet. #140Story

The boy with coffee eyes smiled. Her knees
dissolved. #140Story

All their earthly belongings fit in the pallu of her saree: An
idol god. Gold coins from their wedding. And their week old
son. #140Story

His mind was slowly unraveling. With the loose threads, he
spun bright quilts for his grandchildren. #140Story

The streetlight leaned against the pole, smoking lazily, half-
mast eyes devouring the drunk drizzle’s dirty dance with the
wind. #140Story

Disciplined hair. Poker straight back. Perfect Th of Thank You.
A man of manners. He’d found a little bread. Now, to find a
plate. #140Story

With deft movements of her fingers, she’d spell her eyes with
kohl. Spell, of course, in braille. #140Story

Her love swelled his heart and made it lighter. Afraid it would
float away, he’d put in a stone a day. Soon, he had a heavy
heart. #140Story

She twirled her hair. Sighed. Looked at the time. Wrung her
fingers. Chewed her lips. Looked at the time. Sleep was late
again. #140Story

Her secrets would wilt into sweet nothings when he listened
without imagination. #140Story

He wrote of fading love & hoped she wouldn’t believe it’s them.
She wrote of lasting love & hoped he wouldn’t believe it’s
them. #140Story

His ma went to bed, too ill to hold her love. He stood on the
spot where she had, soaking up the warmth she’d spilt on the
floor. #140Story

By tomorrow, her hair would’ve curled, her lips would’ve
forgotten lines, her smell, returned. So tomorrow, he’d fall in
love. #140Story

Winter came. So she patched her jeans, disbanded her hair and
burnt her rebellion. #140Story

You, before the words. The roundness of your buttons. The
texture of your cuticles. The exposure of your elbow. Love is
disbelief. #140Story

Rings. Portraits. Children. Snug-knit sweaters. New smelling
homes. Old letters. Heartbreaks are made of these. #140Story

She slept in the impression of him on his side of the bed. It was
the most comfort he had ever given her. #140Story

He couldn’t whistle. She couldn’t remember dates. It’s okay,
they decided, that’s what the kids would do. #140Story

She was watching their wedding video, shredding a tissue.
He pulled on his boxers and said, “Hey, that looks just like
you.” #140Story

She didn’t want to talk. The darkness was an itchy blanket
that didn’t agree with him. Livid, he stabbed the dark with a
light. #140Story

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