for friends, & consequently, the rest of the world.

6 poems

to Manav,

love isn’t faith & that’s okay-

love is a bad habit.

i want to text you- ‘what do i write about you?

‘what would mean the most to you?

‘what do you want to give the world

‘through me & words, with or without me & words

‘what parts of you do i hold?

‘& is my grip tender enough, does it hurt?’

love is the only habit i know,

in how you show me the life i always see,

in how i cried the day after i first talked to you,

in the ‘what would manav think of this?’

all my thoughts are ‘what would my friends think of this?’

& perhaps no one thinks anything at all,

& all echoes in the upturned empty vessels tipped on our shaking necks,

make a person & a life & a home-

i write to you, i bleed.

i hear from you, i sleep.

i wait for you, i love.

to Ketan,

& how his waist puts the whole world in my arms,

& how he told me stories, knitting with some fingers & unravelling the rest of the world with others,

& all his nerves in a careful fix,

shaking tangles of infinite grey matter,

we sit in each others frightened hands,

grey electricity, with its curious white spark,

unfaithful patterns, & faithful love,

where if you care & hold,

ill simply fold.

you are in everything i need,

& in our school in the years,

& all the children that will turn out alright,

& know science is empirics but still know that is truth

& we could know a better life was possible & that is truth

& out of a brilliant white light he walks to me,

hand outstretched, my favourite disagreement,

he comes together for a moment,

a moment of certain harmony-

before he becomes light & noise again,

& holds me.

to Vrinda

i would rather talk to you instead.

to Pritika,

to everything-

as we know it, as we make it.

yes & no

& sorry, we are late & so thoroughly over time,

& over all the silence before we were born,

& we’ll burn with fruits we eat & cigarettes & every time we scream at the universe,

& don’t care for an echo, or an evidence of distortion, but maybe just a reply, so we wait for a second, a considerate fraction-

& scream again, because it’s all we know to do,

& we are impatient & you would be too,

life is short, & we’ll make it shorter, with our flattening lungs, & completing desires,

& there is too much wrong & too much to love & hate & do & eat,

& then if we die, or drop life, we’ll make a commotion of it too & you’ll breathe an infinity of stories & hope & everything that will come in the smoke we cough after-

this is the only way to be alive & feel it-

crack the arthritis of an ageing world in your sweaty knuckles,

& bite & thrash & kick & scream as the lights go out everywhere we see,

make words for love & hope & care & communism & anarchy & an impossible life so now they are real and we know it completely,

& not knowing any fucking thing else-

unless, of course, you want to tell us about it,

please do, we are ears & nerves & such full empty vessels for you & your mother & your dick of a father,

an immortality of intellect in our fearless mouths for anyone & their boyfriend who would listen or talk to or bite us-

& of all the impossible life that knew itself

we gave up to knowing so thoroughly & unafraid,

not of time or decay or change or itself-

for it all, really, is only itself, & nothing more-

sweet if nothing, bitter if sweet, untrue if bitter-

we’re taking everything apart- you & the metro & the internet & your grandmothers heart,

& all the things that always make sense but never enough

& we’ll put things back together without the human heart to blame,

& if that goes badly set the universe aflame-

cuz the heart mustn’t be tamed

let the light burn away

the universe needn’t know itself, & we can’t be afraid.

this is the only way to be a dying animal & defy it-

to hold onto time & bravely define it,

to throw ourselves forward from the base of the clock, and run across quicksands, with our feet off the ground-

the brain is so capable- not of intelligence or courage- but simply, of honesty,

& in how we’ll write you liberated poems,

in how we’ll listen with our liberated ears,

in how we’ll cook you liberated food,

we hope you find truth.

to Satwik,

& the warmest parts of being human,

& how little effort it could take to love,

& tread lightly on a heart, & listen,

& how we could live together,

in the space between each other,

all needs are without, & ours,

here, we are, in a different world, perhaps ahead in time, alive in an RV, we drive across the country, & the universe is infinite & so are we.

to Shashwat,

dear brother, comrade, & favourite kisser,

if i was a normal person i would have asked you to marry me.

here, im afraid, everything is impossible.

& only here, im afraid-

shash, i wish i cried more, but i don’t know why.

all the phones & trains & books of the world,

& i want to sit in a corner & weep.

about globalisation, & violence, & our weakening spirits-

how can communities be smaller & the internet be larger?

how do i love you when i want to love the world?

i wasn’t built for friends & lovers,

i wasn’t built for the frailty of my body & tears,

I wasn’t built for an end in & of itself-

& if life is how impossible it is to dream-

i violently rewire my dreams till i sleep-

so if we meet again, by the sea,

all i hope is the state is kinder.