//old crayons 

thirty three sketchbooks, 
a class of thirty four, 
forty nine different art-kits, 
a pack of crayons, 
seven shades on the same page, 
more words, 
more silence, 
the other side of laughter, 
thirty eight sketches, 
more words, 
one shivering hand, 
trembling fingers, 
spilled paints, 
smudged sketches, 
more words, 
less laughter, 
more silence, 

a circle around a square, 
a scale, 
mismatched edges, 
a lot more laughter, 
a lot more silence, 
scrapped edges, 
torn sheets, 
paper planes, 
empty sketchbooks, 
lost art-kits, 
spilled paints,
broken crayons,
empty rooms, 
bruised fingers, 
unheard stories, 
lost silhouettes, 
more silence. 

_a circle around a square

(i) How do you rationalise loss?
Is it okay if i mourn a month when I do not know how to mourn a person?

(ii) Emptiness isn’t the lack or absence of something.
It’s a heart that does not know how to beat like it used to before.

(iii) How can you ever know if your heart is relearning how to beat?

(iv) What is the other side of a forever called?
(v) How can 17 days ever be enough to mourn someone?

(vi) I wish I’d recorded more of your laughter.
(vii) Is the 18th day supposed to make it all go away?

(viii) How can time ever decide when you stop mourning?
(ix) How do you mourn without letting it take away all of you?

//mourning october


(i) You remind me of flickering streetlights on silent streets//

(ii) There's a different kind of silence when you’re around// 

(iii) We're slow dancing. 
It's 7:43pm on a friday night, 
your favourite song plays on repeat,
on our broken stereo// 
There is music in the way you whisper my name. 

(iv) The house feels full when you’re around// 
(v) I keep changing houses looking for you// 

(vi) You left your perfume behind, 
it smells of sunshine on dark October nights// 
(vii) I miss September. 

(viii) I do not know how to grieve// 
(ix) The house has never been emptier// 
I miss the patterns your shadows drew, 
on the floorboards outside our room. 
your footsteps reminding me of the song you were// 

(x) Sometimes, I wish we could undo months//
(xi) We wouldn’t be in October today, 
the sun would shine a lot brighter, 
and the silence wouldn’t hold my heart, 
its claws choking on every word,
that I can find the courage to utter.

(xii) I miss my words. 
(xiii) They’ll never be the same without you// 
(xiv) October isn’t home. 
You were// 


In a letter to Ophelia the IIIrd, Fernando wrote, “It’s too cold here without you.” Seven days later, Ophelia sent him 27 orchids with a note saying, “They’ll keep you warm for me.” The orchids withered in four days.

Fernando plucked out all their petals and hid them in between his favourite books.
He wrote a letter to her each day for 27 days. On the 28th day, he posted all of his letters, tore out all his books, and ran down a cliff into the coldest stream of water that he could find, screaming Ophelia’s name.

He swam in the stream for three hours, whispering her name over and over and over again, dreaming of a love he knew wasn’t his.
after three hours, Fernando chose to drown.

In his last letter to Ophelia, he wrote of the time he was seven and his father left for war. He spent every evening next to the river, waiting for him to return. When all he got was a flag and his father’s uniform, he left home.

Like his father, he knew Ophelia wouldn’t return so he sent her a note with a goodbye and a petal from one of those 27 orchids, saying, “They weren’t warm enough.”


(i) you’re the part of October 
I wish I could forget/
(ii) winter takes away a lot from you/
(iii) July felt like sunshine, 
trapped in a box/
(iv) I’m not sure I’m an autumn person/
(v) I do not know what I ever saw in anyone but you/
(vi) November is a paradox that I wish I could solve/
(vii) I don’t do very well around chaos or the lack of it/ 
silence does not help me heal/ 
words do/
the lack of words does/
(viii) I wish I could leave without actually leaving/ 
I wish I wasn’t here/ 
I wish I didn’t have to be/ 
I do not want to not be/
(ix) November isn’t my favourite month/ 
(x) you seem like December on a rainy day/ 
I wish I did not feel like the storm all the time/ 
I miss you/ 
and the lack of you/ 

(xi) do I really own any of my words? 
(xii) sometimes I feel like a stranger to myself/ 
my words/ 
your words/ 
(xiii) I’m confused, 
it’s summer on a cold January day/ 
and I miss the rain/ 
I wish the weather could heal me.
(xiv) I’m sorry you thought 
that sunshine could ever be a person/
or a month/ 
or a feeling/ 
I’m sorry everyone has to leave/ 
on a dark October evening/
when there is nothing but silence/
to close the door behind them/ 
I’m sorry you have to be/ 
when they aren’t.

Dark October Evenings 

A letter to my favourite poet

(i) I taste your words on my lips
I type out this letter as an apology
for this world not being enough poetry for you.

(ii) I think you’re the kind
who’d bring a knife to a gun fight,
whisper words in a rock concert,
sip wine on a Sunday morning,
reading out the same article on the jewel heist
over and over and over again,
a total of 37 times.

(iii) I’m sorry Sunday mornings
are never long enough for you,
I wish I could taste Sunday mornings like you do.

(iv) You’re the song in my one song playlist
that I play on Tuesday nights
that feel like Friday evenings.
I wish I were a poet.

(v) I wish you did not have to apologise
for all the words you’re yet to write.

(vi) You’re poetry
(vii) I wish you’d think so too.

(viii) thank you for being the difference
between roses and lilies.
I wasn’t ever much for roses anyway.

(ix) you’re my favourite unwritten book,
that I wish I could read,
over and over and over again,
on a Sunday night,
at 11:53 pm,
as you whisper my name underwater,
and the constellations shout back,
calling you home.

(x) I wish there were more of you,
and more of your poetry today.

_a letter to my favourite poet.

//unlearning words.

(i) I don’t think I saved enough metaphors for you today.

(ii) I’ve been in the hills since the past four days, there is so much music that I wish I could be but on most days, I am the song that the happy couple plays on repeat, driving away from the sunset on the highways. They have too many sunsets left to drive away from.

(iii) I’ve been meaning to write the longest letter to the Municipal Corporation of Shimla. Winter evenings tend to get lonelier in the mountains.

(iv) Three days ago, I gave my aunt my favourite book in the whole wide world, hoping she’d know that she is all the metaphors that I underlined for her.

(v) Music in the hills sounds a lot different than music anywhere else. I wish I could show you that that is how I feel about you, on most days.

(vi) I wish I weren’t as scared as I am on most days.

(vii) There aren’t enough letters that I could write to you to tell you how I feel about you on Thursday evenings when the sun sets.

(viii) I’ve been watching an average of seventeen sunsets per day, I do not know how many I have left. Sometimes, I wish I could be them and drive away from them, at the same time.

(ix) I feel like I’ve spent my entire life packing, scattering and collecting myself in both baggage and memory. There is too much that I carry around, hoping that the next time I stop, it would be it.

(x) It feels good to be home.

//of baggage claim and municipal corporations