Your voice.

I like to listen to your voice. How your words like ships float on the air towards me and my small ears turn pink in delight. The gentle dip of your voice are the paper planes flying down the sky.

I like to listen to your voice.When you speak, I try to grasp the intangible from the air and keep it in my shirt pocket until it quietly finds an escape route to my heart, filling my body with your voice.


[ Photography by Luciano Matias Dominguez ]




My emotions conjure up and mixes in my heart.

Wave after wave, the ocean of my sorrow expands.

Some days, I wake up to find myself drenched. The water droplets still linger on my fingertips. My room smells like salt and melancholy.



[ Painting:The Three Ages of Woman by Gustav Klimt. (unknown photographer) ]


What is this indescribable pain that originates from my heart ?

What is this intangible suffering that shoots like waves across my body ?

How difficult is to lean against the wall, submerge and become the wall, away from all the noise and people ?

There is a space behind the words where meaning leaves and something else remains. I want to live there.


[ Photography by Maria Kopytova ]

‘ I’m fine ‘


It’s 9:01 PM, August 1.

Don McLean’s American Pie is playing and I’m nodding my head to it. You’re not paying any attention to the music.

You are staring at the cream wall.

What a peculiar life you must lead in your head.

I tell you to lie down if you’re tired. ‘ It’s fine’ you tell me and I have to believe it is.

The music is reflecting off the wall, a sombre rhythm of its own.

You are unbelievably cute, you hate it when people say that to you, so I’m going to keep that in my heart.

With cigarette in one hand, I try to clear the bed hoping that you would sit next to me. But you stare at your fingers, that is okay too.

I almost put my ink pen inside my mouth instead of the cigarette. I laugh at myself. Life is funny.

I hope the smoke from my lungs reaches you, it’s a whimper for company.


[photo-source: the-bushido-code/tumblr]



Falling in love and all that.


[Photo Credit: Weronika Izdebska]

Falling in love with you again and again and again is my only obsession.

I’ve loved you and for that I’ve to suffer infinitely.

What is this warm feeling that is never receding in my heart  ?

Women like seasons have come, but the sight of you is the first drop of monsoon.

My heart aches and my eyes fill up every-time a memory of your touch breezes through my mind.

Oh, how much I yearn to touch your gentle dusky skin, plant kisses on your forearm.

Oh, how you become one with the wind and bring showers of yellow flowers to my windows, how the air delights in your presence and how the earth giggles with your timid footsteps.

Oh, how can I stop crying and smiling at the same time, when the thoughts about you flood my mind ? What is this feeling of being full and empty at the same time ? Is this love ? What is this wave of melancholic sadness that ebbs in my soul ? Is this love ?

My soul is still with you. When you walk by, oh, how it tries to prance back into my body . All I can do is whisper ‘stay at home’.

Letters to women I have loved.


Source : Pinterest


the very thought of you makes me warm. In this winter, you have become my hearth. You fill my heart with the warmth of a hot coffee mug in a rainy afternoon.

Your tresses like a gentle water fall makes my heart brood over like a summer cloud. The antics I do with you is nothing but to truly know you and paradoxically to forget you, for what is love but the constant evolution of the mystery of the other person ?

Under the cavern of stars and your jet black hair, while you were hovering my body reverberating with me inside you, I saw god. I became a Sufi dervish whirling on your navel.

And your body becomes fluid in my hands and all I do is recourse its path into the night.

The thirst for your lips is ever growing in me. Our home is underneath the stars, between the streets of wild moaning, in the alley of hickeys, near the junction of ejaculations.

There is not a single day this month I’ve not thought about you. Even when your hands stop talking, your eyes, your eyes.

I remember how we got lost in the seas of our pupils and how we swam back every time we drifted too far away.

Maybe we are lovers who are just not meant to be. All the music we shared will forever be in the mix tape of my soul and each time I hear your name, the far reach of your voice, the warmth of your touch,  I will press the play button of the cassette and perhaps we can dance yet again under the moonlight.

You will forever remain a song in my heart that I will refuse to sing.

Yours, always,




Hey, you ?


[ Illustration: Ritchelly Oliveira ]


I imagine you as a cloud drifting in my shirt pocket.

Not forming a relationship with you, will forever, be a pang of guilt and a small jug filled with relief.

You occupy my drunk-thoughts and lonely afternoons.

The cold comfort of your hugs, I shall never forget. The small corner, my home, in that infinitely big embrace. Where I opened the bottle filled with all my love, agony, pain and sadness like a champagne, uncorked.

I left some part of me in you, every time I hugged you.

If words could ever convey what they are meant to, know that I’m sending words in ships and planes to you all wrapped in the gifting paper of warm love. Every envelope enclosed with my kiss.

You occupy my soul and that’s all.