poetry

Cigarettes after sex

Who decides how you fight

Someone you love to hate

Maybe you tie him up

Let the animal inside your cage

Come alive

As you bind him with his own knots

And starve him

You push him down

Tug his trousers

Hold him

At a distance

He can feel your warmth

Not let him touch

Or feel

While you feast his neck

Tug his hair

Till you hear him scream

And that’s how you fight

Someone you love to hate

And when the clock strikes eight

Minutes after two

You hold his neck

And breathe down his track

To his stomach and below

And look him in the eye

You challenge

You tease

Seduce and ask him to call a truce

Offer him an olive branch

But after you feel what makes him

The man he is

And you let him

Inside you

On your terms

And a million conditions

Until he offers peace

And then you wake up

Untie him

Wear your pride on your chest

Smile at him one last time

Before you return home

Savor your victory

Hold that cigarette high in air

Let the smoke guide you to base

And you shall tell the world that

You decide how you fight your battles

Especially with the one you love to hate

poetry

Magic

There were men and there was him. Each time the ink touched the paper it bled for him. I fell in love with my muse. I was an average writer and he was the masterpiece. He was the sound of the violin that starts off softly and gradually proceeds to make the most powerful tune you have ever listened to. He was the scratches of color on the white canvas. He was mad, he was rage and he was fire. He was the color red, and yellow and all shades of orange. His mere face would set my soul on fire. I was burning for him and he was oblivious. Probably he was too busy to even notice. But I fell in love with all his colors and textures. I saw him when I was awake, hoping wishing, praying life would bring us back together, again. I burned for a stranger I have hardly even met. After him, no man ever looked enough, seemed enough. However fascinating they were, however beautifully I was held, a part of me longed for him. He was way out of my league. I was a poet and he was masterclass storyteller. He would walk past me in a crowd, but I would spot among a billion stars. All the ones I met before and after were men, remarkable some, normal others, but him, he was magic.