Dirty Dancing

Won't you come outside with me?
I know, inside is more fun,
Clearly.
The lights are dimmed and disco
And we're dancing

Like there's no tomorrow
Sans any bodily coordination
Clearly
We're too high to dance
Too high to stand, or sit

So, I whisper
Into your eyes,
'Wanna go out in the dark, with me?'
You push back the hair behind my ears
And whisper back, 'in a minute'

Outside, it's 2 AM
No earthly hour this
And the sea's running wild
Tides are high and water's splashing
With delirious intentions

We are squeezed in between,
Land and sea
And standing still,
But no matter how hard we try
We're shaking, shivering and dancing

You keep your distance and ask
'Now we're outside'
'Whaddya wanna do'
I say, 'Nothing'
'Let's go back in, shall we'

Suddenly, I remember
For the briefest moment
When you'd bent down to whisper
Your lip had touched my ears
And then a current passes through me

Anathema

Drunken slurs.

A woman once was

The funny caricature in her ex-lover's poem

She sat feet outstretched in winter wind

On a January midnight

Old Monk in her hands

A glass with a square base

Fit into her hands like magic

Ice cubes clinked 

And it was all that moved

She spoke in indistinct 

Drunken slurs

As he drew her that night

Eight years later,

That ex-lover is a father

Of the child of another woman

And everyday, he dotes

On his naive daughter,

Who knows not one bit

Of what life holds

And packs her lunch box,

With the purple butterflies on it

And takes her pictures

The woman with the Old Monk

Eight years later,

Down the line, or so

Contemplates freezing Old Monk 

Into cubes in the tray, to drink that then

Such that it doesn't water down

And that her passing out each night

Take not as long

Simultaneously,

The woman tries to write a poem

About the new daughter, and the butterflies

And the utter obscenity of fates and heartache

Her drunken slurs, not much coherent.

The passage of eight years

Has been as cruel as healing

Everything happens for a reason

And yet, for no reasons at all. 

How they became whoever they did,

They would never know. 

But they did become their own.

Anathema. Anathema. Anathema. 

Much Love

The cyclone that was to be,
Has now been averted.
A changed course,
Perhaps, on the way back from Myanmar.
Somewhere else, on this indented coastline
It shall make landfall

Now the coconut trees
In my backyard, shall live.
But alas, I have no backyard.
No coconut, just a sterile shrub of potted hibiscus
That refuses to even, flower.
And ants ate away the basil.

Now, there are long nights
And deep sleep.
Dreamless sleep against the backdrop of
Instrumental guitar
And the masochistic pleasure
Of losing oneself.

And never finding oneself again.
For there is a certain bliss in being lost.
You my judgmental friend,
Will never know, what glee this is.
You stay where you are,
Go to parties.

I will stay back and smoke in my portico
Releasing circles of smoke into still air
My toes resting on the grille
Beside my sterile hibiscus
With my head, between my deaf ears
Pregnant with memories, shallow regrets and the
Immeasurable joy of solitude.

Much Love

For: Donald Hall

Matinee

She was completely soaked in the plan. She went through it again and again. The show was at quarter to three. She had to leave at half past one. The cinema hall was more than ten kilometers away. And he was to meet her at their designated pick up place. She couldn't be late. They wouldn't miss the ice-cream before the show started. He had booked three seats for the two of them in the corner of the last row. So that he could wrap his hand around her shoulder and no one would be bothered. She had made a suitable alibi at home, she was away for back-to-back tuitions and soon after she would go to the beauty parlor. She prayed hard that nobody should find out. What else could she do but pray. What could anyone do but pray. She was a few minutes late and he had been waiting. She tied a scarf so as to hide her face and climbed on to his bike, and sat clutching his chest from behind. Like they do. In a minute, they were on the main road. The wind was unstoppable that afternoon. It shouldn't rain, how would she explain at home if she got drenched. Her head had transformed into this constant alibi manufacturing machine. It didn't. They licked their ice cream cones standing in the alley behind the hall. Her face was uncovered now, and people stared on, uninhibited. In her eyes he saw how nervous she was. In the darkness, when the film played, they held hands and even plucked kisses off each other. But her heart lay in her phone, which might ring anytime. What if they found out. Nobody called, though. In the interval, he bought more soft drinks and wafers. The cold breeze from the air conditioner, gave her the chills and she snuggled as close to him as she could. He whispered things into her ears, making her promise for a few more matinee shows like that. She whispered back, asking what if people back home found out. He whispered back saying that he had his way of taking care of things, if they did. She felt both empowered and bothered, by what he had said. Later, when the show ended, the skies opened up. The wind had stopped and the rain began to look scary. They couldn't ride back in that weather. They waited and waited for what seem like an hour and she couldn't make anymore alibis on the phone. She was at her wits end and her forehead heated up.They were both soaked under their skins. She was in tears, well almost. And he consoled her with all he had. That they were going to be just fine. 

Breaking the Mould

Learning to disappoint is vital. I barely do it. I fit into the mould with absolute precision, the mould that is crafted by expectations of everyone around me. I don't think I have genuinely disappointed anyone in the world with the honest exception of my boss.

I do exactly what is wanted of me, supposed anybody with my age and roots would do. I wrote all the exams I was supposed to, went to colleges that were understood to be good, slogged in a regular job because money and recognition are considered necessities, cultivated behaviors that were mostly socially acceptable and harbored guilt whenever I deviated. 

But I should unlearn the above, because I indeed should peel away the sense of shame. I haven't done it yet because I am worried of causing a lot of disappointment, of falling beneath. Now, better than never, I am wanting to break that mould. I want to be unafraid of letting down my, friends, family, admirers, even my indifferent gazers on the street. 

I got an extremely crazy haircut done today. I look like a patient of dementia, or an insane cow girl now. I can't tie it up, or let it down. It looks like a mad crow has munched away my mane. The hair, doesn't go with who I have been, nor does it go with who I so desperately want to be.

Before it grows back to its past original shape and size, I just hope that this, makes me learn to stand the ridicule. Makes me brave enough to cause disappointment and move on for the greater reason. I hope that and more love to come by me, inspite of who I be.

Anyway, if you love me, you would love me anyway. Won't ya? 

unbeknownst

She would often talk about the people she met on the way. Sat on water tanks while they took baths in the river below. Lived in tents with. Painted walls with. Some of them even had the weirdest of names. Like very un-Indian names. Yet, those would flow out her mouth like water, and I wondered if she never realized how un-used to I was to those names. She would refer to them often, very often, except when we were not focusing on us, just the two of us. Lovers, they could be, current and ex-es. Both, with equal impartial fervor. Like they never went out of her head. Women, their sense of couture. Their choice of earnings. Their taste in movies, governing philosophies of life, their dark dark secrets of the under-belly. As I sat opposite her, transfixed, protecting the secrets of absolute strangers, inside of my head, creating chambers to hide them in, trying hard and patiently, with intermittent loss of attention, to remember their names, and what people they were. Those people she met, are characters in my life too. Those, who I would never see or meet. Those, unbeknownst.

And

He, had two issues with everything. One, he didn't harbor the art of listening that well. Two, he couldn't stop talking. While doing so, these numerous, numerous people would flow into and out of our conversations. Like both of us knew them equally well. He would refer to them with their surnames first. I guess. In a matter of days, we would move on to funny versatile nicknames. Easier to catch hold of. Remember. Less tiresome. I would often convince myself that I am making a conscious effort for keeping a track of everything. While mindlessly stealing glances at my laptop, squeezing in a bit of work here and there, while he went on, or switching channels on the TV, mentally dictating what's going on in what channel. These people, the ones that are so a part of his life, outside of me, have gradually begun to seep into mine. Like they are someone very close. I see them, and I really do, through him. It's funny, because they have no idea who I am. Whether I am.

They all say, and say with such balls, that the world is a small place, and shrinking by the moment. But here I am, far and away, living with so many inside my head who are unbeknownst to me, strangers except for fragile threads of unconscious acquaintance through the She & He, that I love.

unbeknown (also unbeknownst)
· adj. (unbeknown to) without the knowledge of.

Etc.

When we have lost our initial brush of awkwardness. And have outgrown that shy silence of first love. When we are talking until we are constantly running out of things to talk about. And travelling into and out of each other's minds. There would come a time, and phase when we wouldn't know how to toy around with so much love.
We would play around with forks at the end of dinner dates and wonder if it's over already or should we order dessert. Strike a rhythm with our nails on coffee cups, or break into a tune not understanding what to do with the next five minutes of time. We might face a silence between ourselves which may not necessarily be awkward. That silence will make us feel that may be. May be we are not ready to take the leap.
May be we need some more time. A few days, weeks or years. Or may be we are not right for each other. Was it some ex we left behind. Or someone else who we were about to meet in the future. But never did, because we met you. And other such imaginary doubts.
But honey. You know this. And I know this. No matter how far we run away to, how many others we try to create this love with. None will be as raw as the love we have. Here now. Wondering what to do with this silence that has creeped in without a warning, between us.
No matter what we think say or do, we are going to find our way back to each other. Tomorrow or the day after.
..

Year

How long could be a year?

As long as the pain in the breath lasts. 

As long as memory doesn't fade away. 

As long as the scathe of the ridiculous mistake of love,

lasts. 

A year feels like one complete cycle of life. 

One run of each season.

Summer, winter.

Monsoon, mother of them all. 

A year loops across all the days that we remember 

To celebrate.

Festivals.

One birthday.

New year. 

Days of love.

Fake anniversaries of confessions of affection.

Approximate memories of first kisses. 

A year also marks those numerous insignificant days.

Hundreds of them.

Sundays you sat on the balcony, 

and watched time pass under your nose.

Weeks of meaningless slogging. 

Nights of realizing how real this deadlock was. 

Accidental discoveries of favorite songs.

Pictures taken and forgotten about.

Mugs and mugs of coffee.

Stolen glasses of wine. 

And other cheap intoxication.

Whining of being unread,

Being unheard of.

Moving toward death,

undiscovered. 

Unknown. 

Such other nuances of life.

One whole year. 

Do you care?

How long a year could be. 

It could pass in a jiffy.

But this one, just doesn't go. 

Bitcch 

Pictures often limit imagination. So, don't let this one tie you down for one. 

Now Playing: Chhodo More Baiyyan-~Zubeidaa

October

October is a tricky month. Because it has that feeble hint that winter has arrived. But only in the evenings. When it gets dark earlier than before. And the streets light up surprising you every other day. Because you tend to forget that time has moved on, from the other end of the year, from the neater months of March and May to this month that seems to play all the tricks.

There is a faintly irritating fragrance in the air, that gave a migraine to some woman in a book you read long ago. That irritating fragrance is of a certain bloom in a certain tree that we never could trace. But every October, there is this smell. Hovering over the nostrils. You sometimes wonder if you should go looking for the tree. But nay. It just makes you remember, how in that book, they had cut down the tree so that woman saved herself a dozen more migraines, or two.

And marigold is yet to flower. In a month and a half. The mild wintry feeling, this delay that keeps the mercury from dropping, makes you warm. Warm and regretful. About why you don't use those blazers anymore. And rainbow scarves. Suddenly you miss zero degree Celsius. And icy feet. The warmth does feel worthless.

On this side of the Ghats, there is a wildflower that grows to welcome the feet of Durga. This time of the year. And if I were a wildflower, I could only be it. I don't think it has a name. And I wouldn't want you to see it because I don't want to be seen either.

October is a tricky month, because it separates the month of my birth from the month of your birth. This month stretches between the month in which I wished you were with me to the month in which I wish I were with you. And in this crazy sinusoidal fluctuation of longing, each day is an episode that underlines another waiting winter. 

Looking

I am my opiate, in the making.

I am a chemical. I am a ticking bomb.

A half said sentence; I am the dust on shoes. Like a settled thought. Also, I could be a fleeting moment. Transitory. Between existence and non-existence. I am a lot of could be's. But most of all, I am a chemical. Constituted in weird mind boggling concoctions. Or whatever.   

I must be opium. Because I am driven to insanity by default. By birth. This defect is congenital. Being possessed by the want of what not. Of being ignorant of what is it, what is it, that could, begin to, quieten this deafening noise inside me. 

I am ignorant of all causes and consequences of my being. And I am swaying, between drunken footsteps. Walking this way, that way, and then walking away. Away. 

But, nevertheless, I am looking. Unaware of what it is. The elixir that could cure, quieten, put to sleep. This chaos. Decompose the concocted elements that make me. The chemical I am. I am still looking. 

Someday, hope bless me, that the end point of this quest be me itself. And I end up where I had begun. My journey comes a full circle. Keeping in line with my love for circles. 

And I ultimately accept that I was the opiate. Am the opiate. I am the one person I was looking for. And not anyone else. No one else. Just I.

Pulse

A pulse. Like a heart beat. A beep that ensures a life. Just one pulse, between myraid stretches of time. My thought behaves like a pulse. It's ridiculous, or may be it's even a disorder. Sentiment visits me for one instant of time. Or rather, sometimes a fraction of that instant. It's so gone in the next instant, its hard to believe it was even here. Right inside my heart. Making me break down and shatter into shards. 


It's like an unbearable moment of pain & recollection. Between droughts of any feeling at all, complete sanity.  I don't know what's tricking me, or I am tricking what. But I don't know how to deal with this anymore. How can I, tell me, how can I understand why. In the middle of a perfectly monotonously healthy day, for one fucking crazy moment, for no reason in particular, I would miss him. And want him so bad, that it would make me cry. But the next moment, I would fail to understand why. And move on even before my heart skipped one complete beat. I fail to understand this phenomenon of a pulse.


One moment I am working, typing away, switching windows, engrossed, sane, checking time, looking at my watch. And stuck in that moment, I remember a peck. Not the dozens of kisses, or the things said & unsaid, or the lines on his face. But just that peck. Out of the blue, in the middle of nowhere, the warmth of that moment shoots back to me. That sorrow, paralyzes me. For once. It's hard not to want to cry. Then I begin to remember the periphery of that moment in the past. But something happens. Something distracting happens, and I don't recognize the lapse I just had. 


Anymore.


The pulse is gone. And has ensured that I am so alive, all over again. 

Man & Woman

Obviously we rushed in to see the new bride the moment we were told there was one. I must have been tenoreleven. And I hadn't seen a bride till then. All of those got married at night and left before I woke up the morning next. Even the air wore a deserted look after that departure. Crushed petals of rose strewn on the floor where the feast was last night, but no sign of the bride.

So obviously when told there was a bride, we couldn't hold ourselves still. And waited after one of us, tall enough, to reach for the door bell pressed it. I must have wished I was tall enough for my eyes to reach the door eye to look into the house from outside. To catch a glimpse of that burly mass covered in red and gold, beforehand. But they never made see through door eyes then.

When she opened the door in only a starched cotton sari, prim and pleated like she was some housewife in mid life crisis. Only happier. We were disappointed, to say the least. A brief while after, we were told she was the new bride of a man such and such. Who had a slight of a paunch and was old and was balding. Who had more than a couple children, stacked away in distant cities. And an insane first wife who had been shunned. For that woman was as good as dead. To him. To his children. Everyone.

And this new wife was the spinsterish daughter abandoned in a family of lots of other people who definitely had other things to worry about than getting her married off. So her years of youth had passed and settled down as tiny wrinkles on the corners of her eyes. Which always shrank when she smiled, the way she smiled the first time she opened the door to us.

I can recollect. How much their lives felt entwined into each other those days. How she would roast brinjals pricked with garlic for him. Or he would get strands of lilies for her hair.

Of course, back then I wouldn't have deduced what I now deduce. And I realize, it's ridiculously obvious how much man and woman need each other. Notwithstanding.

Now I think about them. And then I think about us.

The End

The way they show it in movies. There's a sad ending. Colors disappear and the screen goes black and white. The ending often has some or the other huge message behind it. And your eyes are about to well up. Deep inside, you must be touched by this poignance. Because there is some beauty in it. Or may be you see glimpses of your life in the movie, etc.

Sometimes, after that moist climax, they bring up the beginning. The beginning that they din't show earlier. Just a couple of glimpses. During the movie those moments of the beginning must have been referred to many a time. Making you imagine how must have they gone for real. Arousing related general curiosity. So you wonder, a couple of times. About those happy moments. When our story began. And strangers held on to the eyes of other strangers. For a little longer than the usual stretch of time for which memories are involuntarily erased.

You then travel to the other end to see the beginning for real.

And then you can connect the dots. The beginning after the end. All the blanks are filled. Everything falls into place. And you are relieved, at least there was this happy beginning.

Now assume that movie is life indeed. And you feel like you are fast approaching the climax. The sad ending. Because you really don't know why, your sense of loss keeps getting deeper and deeper. And colors disappear. You begin to think, you must be somewhere very very close to The End. A closure must be in the offing.

And you are trapped in amnesia. You can't remember how long you have been walking. Incessantly. Panting for breath, half in tears. But most of all, you can't remember the happy beginning. The one they show in the movie. In the end, after the end. No matter how hard you try, you just cannot remember. What the beginning felt like. And you're not sure if it was a happy one. So that must not have been the beginning after all. So you keep going back in memory. And yet there is nothing in your hands. Probably, there was no happy beginning after all. And all your life has been this way. Dis-satisfactory and flooded with ennui.

Drawing parallels, between the movie and life, you never stop wishing. For a miracle that could bring back in a flash, the memory of the first few happy moments before the drama began. For any Closure, other than this, would be unfair

Antidote

I don't keep a picture of you. I would lose my mind if I did.

So I look at mine.

Strangely enough I am the only thing that reminds me of you. My love for you shows shamelessly in my picture. Between those eyes of mine, I see you. In the curl of lips, the mild pout, I see you. Definite memories of you.

It's a helpless situation. Because, now I can never get to you. Nor will you to me. I have desperately ensured that we lose each other and that every strand of contact be broken. And now that there is nothing between, you and I, I feel love. Nothing but love. Pure, stagnant, glistening, love. For the first time in forever. I feel assured that I love you. There is no glitch or doubt.

And yet I don't feel helpless  at all. Could be because I have learned not to hope. I have drawn a line & abandoned the world on the other side.

Nevertheless on some nights, I cry. And cry relentless. My mind missing out on that line between truth & untruth, I sway into thinking, wondering how would I have been if I had you.

I would have been like me, in that picture.

The Fever Bird

A poet of repute writes about love. He mentions how he wakes up disturbed to the cries of the papiha in his garden, in the dead of the night. The lunatic bird sings in the midnight heat, without relief. Like a bone of pain is stuck in its throat. And our poet doesn't know sleep. He feels that the papiha is conspiring only against him, because there is no one else in the house awake. He looks out of his room, and can't trace the hidden bird. Its throttling cries split his heart apart. Those cries of pee-kahan, pee-kahan. Where is my love, where is my love. The poet christens this emotion as love. And tries to make me believe so.

Yet again, I have been lied to. Call me a man for having said this. But love is an extended mating-ritual. It's like fore-foreplay. At least this once, men are right. It's a terrible facade that love puts on, it cheats you for half a life. It's all about chemicals gone crazy in your brain. Some hormones out stepping their fucking limits. The same ones that ensure you get hair under your arms. That's about it. It's animal instinct. All that we suppose sets man apart from animals has been doctored to fill in books, to make people fantasize. And make this hunt for an okayish mate, a pink one after all. That's about it.

I saw a blind man and a blind woman. I don't know if I could impose our jargons on them. But they would have been objectionable had they not been blind. It was a public place, there were scores of people, like me, like you, who would but ogle at people who make out in public. But I couldn't find a term for them. I couldn't force any thought on what I saw. No one else was watching, so I could just stare on. Like an almost involved by stander. The woman was taking the man's hand and running it across her face, above her eyes, with almost all white and the squinted black, the dark circles around her eyes, her nose, the slightly hollow cheeks, and then his hands paused for a short breathtaking moment on her mouth, fingered gradually from the upper lip to the lower, like a beat of music. Then down to her chin and below her neck. There was a smile on the man's face. It was a like a mad man's. He must have been happy. So must have been the woman. Now I wonder, was that about it?

Poet in reference: Vikram Seth

Trading Dreams

They sat beside each other, in a room dumped with books. Books here and there and everywhere. Piles of them. Some torn, some yellowed. Their covers falling off, she was tired of stacking them one above the other. A slight imbalance would make the whole stack come down like a humpty dumpty and she would gasp and begin all over again. There was a kind of warmth in the room. A warmth that had nothing to do with the late summer afternoon outside.

It was because of the  presence in the room, because of his arm touching hers. No hair stood up, no one got goosebumps. That proximity, that lack of distance, brought about a peace that was rare. All noise as if had gone off to snooze. It was a summer afternoon with books and scarce conversations.

He was typing away, something. She felt no quest to see what that was about. He would tell her most of his stories, the rest she knew. He assumed. They had known each other a few months. But it felt like much less than that, there was always that freshness, that expectation of unlocking a few more secrets about the other.

Sometimes it felt longer. Mostly she had to strain her memory to recollect how she had already lived a third of her life, alone. That would be the most unusual thing however. Company makes you forget what you are for real, under your skin. Only austere loneliness makes known the inner person.

Togetherness, on the other hand conspires sharing. Even of those fleeting dreams we secretly nurture. Away from destiny's prying eyes.

'I want to be in a city that is all of water.'

'Shouldn't you learn to swim?' he laughed.

She continued as if he hadn't said a thing.

'No streets, and you move from one house to another and even shop using a boat.'

'Isn't your wish to perennially float in thought converting into this one?'  

'You know I have a complicated right brain, very very mysterious.'

A prolonged silence followed. She leaned on his shoulder, breathed in sighs at times. Toyed with his nails, put her fingers between his. They clasped.

'I only want to write.'

There was a pause, like he would continue to explain his dream. But that pause stretched into a lull. Her expectation of a continuance died after a while. 

They didn't turn and look into each other. They be that way, she leaning on his shoulder. Nothingness prevailed. A moment froze.

Years later, years that seemed like longer than they were, she was glancing through his pictures of Venice. His broad glad smile, and water. Everywhere. No land, no ground realities to struggle against. Afloat forever.

And she was hung in the middle of writing her maiden story. Looking for words, sketching a character.

Love makes us like each other. Conspires sharing like said. And sometimes it makes us part to live each others' dreams.

dream?

On my last day at work, my boss asked me what is it that I want in life? Pop came the spontaneous answer, like it always does. I just want to be happy. There were many affirmative nods and smiles from the others around. But c'mon! Don't be a spoilsport! Tell us the dirtiest, most materialistic dream you have..

Well a sea facing apartment that overlooks the highway, which has one entire wall made of glass by which I can sit and write, which I roll down when I want the rain to come in. And a balcony from where in I can lean down and feel the wind. And one bed with a hell of a cushy mattress, where I would totally sink in and disappear, with lots of pillows I can throw my legs on. And of course a kitchen that isn't in any way separated from the hall, where I can cook all my experimental cuisine and try them on myself. And a huge TV on which my favorite sitcoms run back to back, all the time. And a fridge with lots and lots of cheese in it. And Norah/Shakira playing in the background all the time, the volume of which adjusts automatically to my moods..

And in that whole dream, which just now occupies a tiny space inside my head, I see only me. And no one else. No one else deserves to be there along with me, I guess.

But hey there was another dream too. I was home after a few months into MBA, and my dad who is an amateur chef was thinking of quitting his job and we were about to start a restaurant! We were seriously into it, until one day I obviously went back to school, and Dad to his job..!!

Dreams they say..

vis-a-vis

my love is sacred, it's outrageously passionate. it's irrational and uncompromising.
your love is moody. it switches between maddening heights and unknown depths, it kills me whenn it does that, bothways
my love is pathetically possessive of you, yours is nameless
my love paralyzes me, it is as unconditional as unconditional could get, it doesn't crave for your response, yet it does.
you hold me hostage, you dictate my mind's every move
i don't matter to you, you follow the faceless like a lunatic
your love is divine, mine is human, very human
i need you and youare insatiable
i stay up like an insane insomniac, watching you sleep
you are a rock, while i explode to your every touch

it's badly lopsided..

my loveis love
and yours is not

like a broken bangle
and like the remnant of the moon that stays till the morning sky
like an unsaid word
like a fire doused before it became all ash

you left me,


incomplete

secretchest

i never dreamed of a knight in shining armor. i just wanted a keeper of my secrets.

but that was not to be. after a heartbreak, the ghost of the heartbreaker remained with me, for a long long time. i forgot craving for my keeper for secrets. i began talking to that ghost instead.

throughout, i wanted a shoulder to lean on, not a knight in shining armor.

i used to have visions, flashes of sunlight emerging from the dark, a savior, an exorcist, the one who would drive away the ghost of my heartbreaker. now, i don't have them anysuch anymore, those visions.

because

i see those hypothetical shoulders becoming real in blood and muscle, and they look like you. also there are crazy clues to believe this is true. hence, i have stopped having those visions altogether. it is the most beautiful thing, you know, to see, my dreams trickle into reality, drop after drop. and those dreams are not lost in transition, may be not, i hope not, i want not.

but you still have those visions, you still see half hidden face of a virgin that keeps you awake, you still do. you still await the keeper of your secrets. and i am not the one, not the one for you?

will you break my heart, again?