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Personal Note:

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Poem

There's something called Nescafe Nights,
Written upon midnight kitchen counters,
As I sway to your voice,
On a phone whose connection
Is keen on abruption.
During these Coffee wafted midnights,
Conversations are suspended from knowledge,
Who knows?
Who cares?
Who sees?
Do you?
Consumed by the stretched sheet of time,
Isn't there something about you and I
that almost makes this longing a syndrome?
I try to ask, nonchalantly. 

There's something
What could be the adjective?
Endearing about these Nescafe Nights,
Feeling of your favourite poetry collection,
Your first paperback poetry collection,
against your skin,
when the first poem, sinks, seeps, simmers you in,
And how I luxuriate, and then Dissolve
within this Nostalgia 
that's dispersed over space and constellations,
waiting to be mourned and mooned over.

There's something about a caffeine stained room
That lingers and follows
With every lane, every day, every thought.
Within the scoops of swirled up ice-cream
There's something about this swirled up ice-cream
on my tongue, within a dimmed, always sunset room
that reminds me of Midnights,
Curled upon my tongue,
Melting, overflowing,
A scented, marked kiss of "Wish I was there"

Maybe, It's the version of reality,
that I've loved for the first time without 
any caution of moment, and Maybe, 
it is the first of firsts where words flow carelessly where 
meanings mesh with others, Maybe
just Maybe this is how simply heartbeat feels
a simple skip of happiness, 
a simple leap of
passion, sometimes a symbol within pages,
sometimes damasked with metaphors, but always a 
stained, kitsch-like memory.

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