Sandeep Kulshrestha's Poetry

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

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 within