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On a special note (Haikus)

She crosses many paths
And the Sun is down
Her hands are curious

Laughter reverberated with ease
The sound of a window opening
Sky is lit

Love, an enigma
She looks at her glasses
Who is smiling now?

Richness of the emotions
The eyes look benign
Realm of endless thoughts

Great is the morning
The book falls
She touches her mind


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I may be in love, but cynically so

I hate to say it
but I say it nevertheless
that I get cynical
in thinking that I may be
in love with you

this story that I build
has a history to it
when I remember abstract things like
the movement of your eyes
when you looked at
your favorite dessert
while it rained
I believe that it would not be love
of the template, of the notion
of what it is
to be in love

Merely contemplating
and being nostalgic
are the constructs of
deep attachment, perhaps
is it love then?
or just a passing phase
or a yearning
just to see your face?

I have many other reasons to say
that it could not be love
as I am still searching the real meaning
in knowing who am I
If I am lost, what is love?
Is anyone capable of truly loving?

You are surely inspiring me
to write these words
this serendipity is baffling
on one hand I am still thinking
and being cynical
and on the other
I am transformed into
endless thoughts of calmness and compassion
when I think of you

will I think like this, forever
like a imbecilic philo…


I gift her shampoos, whole wheat flour, soaps and instant oats pencils and home food not porcelain mugs, vases or bouquet of fancy candies nor DVDs or moonlit nights
it is my way of saying something that something is yet unknown to me or to my mind the word “something” is limiting “everything” has unlimited exposition
she brings the gift of selfies with a face full of pain and tears much more than this she gifts me unlimited horizons of laughing over situations that are gifted to us
she likes those gifts or that’s what she says she gives me love (not a cliché) of the kind that’s unimaginable


My coffee chides me
a kind of motherly triviality
as if I was born
to see caffeine
as a lullaby

Piano sounds on the earphones
and mind drifts
to the childhood
of glasses of milk,
bland omelettes,
ophthalmological problems and power cuts

old houses of memories
of Eastman color frames
pale sunlight
and now,
the coffee

coffee is a healer
from blind dates
to old age cynicism
it seems like acting on some nerves
even though I may love
the capabilities or the taste of the tea
coffee reminds me I am getting
older and crispier

the rustiness of my affair
with this brown drink
tunes me inside somewhere
the dark clouds outside the windowsill
and the coffee starts
melting me