Socks and Tattoos

This poetry is for my friend P from Kerala, India. He is one of the smartest and interesting guy I met online. Though miles apart, something profound has birthed from our friendship. :)

The afternoon rain was such a pain,

I promised to scrawl something for someone,

to no avail.

Crestfallen, I lay down in bed,

Tossed and turned,

and turned some more,

Then started cursing.

Countless Indians I met by far

Fall even  half in love with some.

Yet this is the first time

I actually wrote for one.

I was convinced they own the most beautiful eyes.

Gods, can they lost you with their eyes.

Amount of brown

gawking through your bare soul,

making you kick up clouds of moon dust.

The spectacles couldn’t even shroud them.

He almost made me feel jealous.

No, I was jealous.

He who detests the presence of a woman.

endless rants on how queer one can be

“Liar”, I said softly to myself.

How can he despise them

yet in the middle of the night

bears to listen to my whines

when my unwanted visitor creeps in.

F**k, she visits so often.

Sooner, wonders start to dance in my head

Trying to keep my bleary eyes open.

Can he tell her stories,

Crack a smile on her face

the way his photographs illustrate

different tales of love and

promises of forever?

can he stroke her body

the way he does with the lens,

familiar grip on each curve

that even with shut eyes

he knows she is his?

or can he believe in her

more than he believes himself?

Curiosity and a lot more

remains in a box laced with anxiety

Unopened, untouched.

Now on my fourth cup,

Thoughts glide to Kerala and back..

I’ll be just few thousand miles away,

Just in case you want to have the next

cup of coffee with me.

Sit around in mirth, comparing our favorite brands of socks

and laughing about your fake tattoos.