First date conversation


Cranberry sweetness, lime smiles and a shot of vodka,
cheesy glances and a bubbling laughter,
slipping down inside jokes and handing out disclaimer cards.

You know what terrifies me?
And by love I mean the kind of human interaction that comes with a complimentary exchange of the saliva and endless words but where no one really talks.
The kind of love that makes priority lists and sends eggplant emojis in the text messages.
the kind of love that starts with a table cloth and ends with my bedsheets, where my plans don’t matter and your plans are already under the rug, where one is scared of other’s feminist opinions.
Where there is no bridge to meet at the end of the fortnight and midnight kisses leaves footmarks that need covering.

Don’t pretend to not see it, my issues with commitment.
it’s there but I like to get high sometimes.
And by high I mean the kind of intoxication where I don’t remember what century I belong to. Where I feel the love when I get some, where I see your smoke rings and confuse it with the most magical proposal ever.
Where I dance all night on a song that I’ve never even heard before, where my feet looks beautiful and the air tastes delicious when we run so fast we could fly and by flying I mean we make out in streets as empty as our chests and the street lamps are the only ones that could see us, barefoot, unashamed, unwavering.

likes, dislikes, favourites and pet peeves?
A single answer to everything but I like to remember everything.
And by remembering I mean the kind of sticky notes that I leave on my nightstand when I wake all night up writing them.
Pornography, ugh!
Fake kind of love where no one spells anything correctly.
And by no spells I mean there are no magical enchantments, no hazy kind of merriment and no one talks between kisses. I do not like it when the clouds do not create halos around the love that is not even in the air.
Dragons may be fiction but these fulfil my need for documentation.
And by documentation I mean I’ve seen the magic happening and the world’s got to see.
Side hugs.
What the hell is a side hug and why do they even exist?
Because by side hugs I mean the kind of broken souls that do not know what warmth tastes like.

Do not bring me flowers, I say, never bring me flowers.
They say you love me but they remind me of what is wrong in this world.
And by wrong, I mean the kind of life where daisies are buried with a lover’s expectations.
where the architecture reminds us of colonialism and tragedy is showcased in the museums.
I am a sucker for art, I’ll tell you but I’ll cry anyway.
And by crying I mean I’ll take long walks in the rains and give a piece of the cold that I’d eventually catch.

You know what does not terrify me?
And by love, I mean the happy childhood days where we scraped our knees tumbling down on each other’s metaphors.
Where we talk till the end of the night and till the wake of the morning and call it making love, where you need three albums to describe your relationship status and where no one needs to build a home together, where love is enough, for what is enough if love isn’t.
The kind of love that starts with a glance and ends when the world ends with it, the love that’s unpredictable, that’s abominable, which creates a havoc, a riot in the society, that ruins you in the best way possible. The kind of love that can never be explained in a poem


Photography by Vansh Sabharwal

Photo clicked by- Vansh Sabharwal
Check his Instagram here-

For more art and love, check these cool Insta pages (mine included)



The sighing of the stardust

I didn’t want to think about her
yet here I am, in the embrace of what could have been.
we were shooting stars and the stardust all together
We were always in each other yet never together,
we were the continuum of the universe and
we never came close in the fear of crumbling apart.

Bet that dingy old room still smells the same,
with windows tainted with more than one colour
and the old chestnut tree whispering sweet-nothings
while brushing its lullaby against the balcony.
I once kissed her when the winds were in our favour,
or was it nothing but a dream?

Bet the sweet Gin remembers
even if it was a dream
I swear I could trace her tip-toeing
when I was stuck in the roundabout
looking for the bridge, our bridge.
I wonder if she looks for it too.

Bet it was trouble for her too
to stand there surrounded by lilies,
or were they lilacs? Anyway,
It ached me so hard when I stood there
surrounded by lilies/lilacs
and not dance with her ghosts,
and not kiss away her demons,
It was the perfect mood, but not the time for us.

Bet Gin never woke up from our dream
because how could she when neither have I,
from the yearning, from the itch to write down her name
on every wall of every dingy room out there.
From the burning ache to figure out her coyness
and to scribble out our aesthetic poem on her every breath,
her every molecule, I wished to turn her inside out to touch
But I didn’t, almost.

I didn’t want to think about her,
But here I am, speaking in old lyrics
of the dingy room hauntings, whispering chestnut tree,
the lilies and the lilacs
and the bridge I never got to find
and the love I never got to make
and the woman who was mine but never mine to take
I wish we were not stardust  but humans
who could love without a noose around the collarbones
and wildfire on the lips,
ready to burn them away.


Artwork by Nipun Bhalla

Artwork (a digital painting) by Nipun Bhalla.
Follow him on Instagram here-

Check my Instagram here-