The child in me writes love poems The child in me  still believes that every moon is something to cry for.   The child in me  still thinks  every wall that has rough edges is a sign of protection.    The child in me wants to say every padlocked moment   is safe and unbreakable.   The child in me likes to paint every heart-shaped object ...

The child in me writes love poems The child in me  still believes that every moon is something to cry for.   The child in me  still thinks  every wall that has rough edges is a sign of protection.    The child in me wants to say every padlocked moment   is safe and unbreakable.   The child in me likes to paint every heart-shaped object in ...

“Flirt” Flirting  is taxonomy where classification is needed for definition.   Flirting is the age old game where seeker seeks seeking and hider hides hiding..   Flirting is heart’s assertion that rules are made to be broken…   Flirting  is imprisonment that is soft and freedom that is hard…   Flirting is the only signature to every conversation that never ...

The list of my ailments Life has changed  since the day it first rained.    You’ve poured yourself  into all my words  like milk into early morning coffee.    I’ve become the ‘player’ who’s hurt, but not yet retired  who keeps playing on  and playing out.    I see the world in fragments  for my imagination  has run out of colours  and dreams have ...

Meditation of wet hearts Meditation is waiting  between one smile and another  and staying aloof  from words and love-chronicle.   Meditation is being still between eye and eye  that gaze the gaze of affection, without rush frailty  and insecurity.    Meditation is tied hair,  neatly combed and carefully kept,  without giving way  to occasional mischief   and frill  that necessitate breaking of silence.  ...

In this hour of departure you knit all my scattered thoughts into a carefully worded text - which I will promptly save in my messy heart-folder with many other drafts… In this hour of departure you inadvertently become all the soft things on earth - like, the breeze of Marine Drive the flowers of Peradeniya and raindrops on Galle Fort ...

There will be another day and another time  for us  to deceive ourselves with love and fear to prefer dream over reality  to differentiate smile and tear  with the closest approximation of words to rediscover solitude  and vanish  between soft melodies and interludes into silence   and to return with  heart’s long lost signatures at inconvenient times.    Not now, ...

“Let our time be filled with a merry song” for there is always a fingertip  to press the No button  and end my search for you,  to halt poetry and the mad rush of words, to stop the traffic of timelines and roll back years, freely,  to the point where you and I  were unknown particles of dust  at different ...

Get down to the heart of my heart, you will see smoke, white-pills, alcohol and other forbidden things, walls and walls and walls, built from scratch,  with so many holes at the bottom,  melange of distant memories and light and dark shades of people vanishing into the air like vapour, some books, untouched, unread, with lessons unlearnt, and eyes looking ...

A dream whose silver-lining  is made of particles of love stands out in the morning against the blackness of the night.    A dream whose remainder  is smiles, unending, resembles the perennial battle of hearts against all watery things  – raindrops, ripples, tears and other such things.    A dream  whose eyes don’t store faces in memory  only captures frozen ...

Every long-winded sentence that you and I write  should come to an end at the behest of blankness   every evening that rains – like this - should run out of time wittingly or otherwise,  every sleepless eye should sleep  and every sleeping dream must walk;   in the end I should see only one end in every ending. You.  ...

For my heart is made of stone and my words have now become graffiti, You are free to throw it, coyly, deep into the horizon,  over the ocean and its pale-blue colouration.    You can toss it around  in whichever way you prefer,  between love and loss:  affection and anxiety for it is movable and tractable, and does not fear ...

If mountains of sorrow can be moved  with the soft dance  of wisps of hair,    If juxtapositions of old texts  get dismantled  with the voice  of her nightlong silence,    if life looses its way  in its own trajectory making solitude the norm,   if the gentlest touch of  fingertips can become a hooded thief in the night  robbing ...

“Write a Poem, TODAY!”   “Okay!” I say, because I know that some poems begin without knowing of tomorrow, Just as the ephemerality of smiles and tears, on strange faces passing by   “Okay!” I say, again, as i know  that i will only write until your life gets around mine,  with or without an apology that comes and goes ...

In no poetry times  you catch me  without a face.    blind and deaf, I turn heart into eye silence into ears,  weep memory-tears  and save transitory smiles.   I meet strangers whose faces forbid identification and hearts covet incarceration, and I fall  for blurred dimensions of love, in blissful ignorance.    In no poetry times, you see me walking ...

Familiarity is another name for you, so I will let your eyes by-pass mine.   The grass pf remembrance - like the passage of time- will grow over the residue of life, and darkness – like a pair of wings - will stretch out , dozily,  in the moonlight. The edge of your memory will then hold the words of ...

Irked by your obscurity, I throw a question at you like a stone, heartless, that  flies over the Pacific Ocean and hits the corner of your right eye.   “WHO AM I TO YOU?”   You say nothing but slowly wipe your face with calm fingers, as if you are unhurt, and show them to the glaring screen.    “This.” ...

When you choose to sleep in the arms of realization love becomes a wall that is built brick by brick by brick, between one dream and another. When you choose to sleep in the warmth of imprisonment night descends drop by drop by drop over the alleys of life, between one wall and another. Either way you can choose to keep my eyelids awake. * * * RJ ( 09.07.2013 )

Vesna Drop by drop you bequeath me the entire spectrum of colours which you hide in your pregnant eyes as you move, slowly, from sky to sky. Drop by drop you accumulate all the music of the night, with your soft hands and long fingers, and your hair falls over the fairy dance of a thousand fireflies. Drop by drop ...

On Untimely Snowflakes Just before the midnight of a long-winded day when the residue of my words laying over your memory is still when your eyelids flutter, softly, for the very last time when the infinity’s dream-scape opens its warm arms wide When a strange smile adorns your lips, stealthily in connivance, let the untimely snowflake fall over your hair tenderly and ...

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