Another day, another chance

Another day, another chance.

At life and at living.

Yet another prospect

to prefect this art.

To draw the right strokes.

To smudge and shade the gradients.

Oh! And what a blessing it is!

To see the night retiring,

leaving the door, ajar,

allowing the light to rush in,

the blushing dawn

spreading its tippet,

and the prismatic scattering

that follows,

consuming the night.

Slowly. Definitely.

Yes!

Another day. Another chance.

Second. Third… Millionth. Zillionth chance.

To breathe.

To believe.

To be busily astir.

And to beget.

Your very own concrete rose.

Mayhaps a little flawed,

but undoubtedly immensely blessed.

Susurrations of love

The evening hangs on branches.
Dusk. Dust. Quietude.
Rustling of leaves.
Whispers of yesterdays.
Beautiful slideshow.

Long time!
And I yearn to steal,
from the scrapbook of life,
pages, where we had inked
our togetherness.

Forgive me, I hear your voice,
and forget to breathe.
The susurrations of syllables,
leave sultry goosebumps, on my soul.
Still. After all this while. Everytime. Always.

Linking with 

Welfare unto all
Rab rakha 🤗 🤗 🤗 

Persistence

Just like the persistence,
of the tiny miniscule seed,
seemingly dormant in the dirt,
but wild and robust deep inside,
never really still,
creating and growing all the time,
and then one fine day,
out of the smallest crack in the concrete,
shoots up one beautiful rose,
mayhaps a dandelion.
One perfect mesmerizing rose.
One breathtakingly beautiful dandelion.
A little piece of carbon,
refined by perseverance,
into a purest diamond.
Just like the persistence
of that tiny miniscule seed,
that little piece of carbon,
you too persist.
As long as you breathe dearest.
For there’s no other way to be.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook #100words : Dirt

Breath

Shallow, this dance of breath.
This inhalation. This exhalation.
In. Out. In. Out. Repeat.
Same pattern.
Same rise and fall of diaphragm.
Mostly gentle and soft,
fast and hard occasionally.
And then one fine day,
we stop breathing.
And we are no more.
And it’s all over. All done.
Just like that.
Without any warning.
Without any premonitory.
Tasks incomplete.
Appointments due.
Commitments gathering dust,
just like the picture on wall.
But until then,
you are alive.
And all that you get is this breath.
This inhalation. This exhalation.
Shallow! This dance of breath?
Or does every pulsation breathe life?

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 word challenge : Dance

Yesterday night, he slept

Late again.
But her colleagues knew the reason.
So they did not seek explanations.
A middle aged woman,
experienced both in life and workplace,
stood at crossroads.
This was the least the office could do.
The patriarch of her family
had been admitted in semi-coma condition last month.
Only last week the doctors had sent them home.
“The hospital has done what it could do”.
It was prayer and serving and support now.
Prayers and life support machine.
Alive.
His heart beating, eyes blinking
blood flowing in the veins,
if it is called living.
Yesterday we exchanged a word with her.
“We are waiting, someday now he will ask of us,
He will wish for his favourite food,
He will recognize us”.
Yesterday night he slept.
And never woke up.
Today she was on leave.
Will be for a few days.
We observed a two minute silence dutifully
and proceeded with the day.
But my thoughts keep drifting
to that kid in her
who was waiting for her father to get well soon.

Ringing echoes

I can record your
reverberating, resonating laughters,
the ones that start
straight from heart
and reach your lips,
and play and replay them
over and over again.
And then,
I can imagine the rosy blush,
the surge of warm blood,
that slivers of smile
lend to your cheeks
and
feel a little envious
of their soft, subtle caress.
Your quick breaths and short gasps
interspersed between hearty chuckles
can warm me on icy days.
But, I am left with
this irresistible urge to reach out
and touch and kiss those
squeezed eyelids
and
those laughter lines.
What do I do?

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words: Record

The first touch

We discuss something frivolous and it sets me laughing. You stand there, looking at me with a desire I have never seen before in your eyes. It makes me incoherent so i stop abruptly and turn away to attend to some routine ... perhaps laundry ... but you hold my wrist and stop me. We look at one another, silence heavy and loud, and then I wriggle out of your grasp and start laughing again ... a fake hollow laugh ... to ease the atmosphere but your touch is stinging .. like I have touched a live naked electric wire. I turn away and you hold me by my wrist again, your grip is firm this time. And my resolve, weak. Then, with the slightest pull, you draw me close. I am a little scared, my heart is beating insanely and laughter is all but forgotten. I don't look up and you don't look away. The way you take me in with your eyes, I feel warm. This is new and different. I am not sure why but I step back. You don't move .. you are still holding me by my wrist. Your gaze moves. From my face to my wrist. And you loosen your grip ... like the other day you measured it ... with the circuit of your fingers ... "very thin" you had said. I could have withdrawn my hand and moved away in that instant but I stay. But then you trace my wrist with your fingers and kiss it lightly. My heart stops. Literally stops. And then you interweave your fingers with mine. I step back again, my heart thumping loud. You again pull me close. This time with force so that I am drawn close to your chest. I am a little breathless. You are cool, calm , composed, like you know what you're doing. And then you do nothing for a while. Nothing at all. You sit by the edge of table, I stand some centimeters apart from you and there is this teasing smile on your face.

I made you stay

You left,
without looking at the spring
bursting from the seams of my being.
You left
but the seeds that you planted with your ardent kiss,
took earth and grew roots in the soil of my heart,
flourishing into vines and twines.
The entangled mesh of capillaries
rewound itself to make space for
subtle harmonies, sprouting slowly.
You left
but you thrive in my garden,
holding my hands,
our fingers entwined, breath staccato and eyes closed.
And all the blossoms,
are seeped in your characteristic Hugo Boss Scent.
You left
but I made you stay
in all my blank verses.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words: Garden

I is for ... Inhale

Every inhale, each
Single exhale, rhythmic beats,
Buried in your scent.