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  • The Day Kisses Learned to Fly

    The Day Kisses Learned to Fly

    She asked him…

    how much do you love me?

    He said,

    infinity…

    and beyond.

    And the kisses continued.

    Not on lips.

    In the air.

    She grabbed all she could,

    clumsy, greedy, smiling,

    and pressed them into her heart.

    But some escaped.

    They landed

    on the cheeks of women

    walking down the street.

    They blushed.

    Stopped.

    Looked around.

    Who touched me?

    An old lady chuckled.

    Something warm

    remembered her chest.

    Two lads rubbed their cheeks,

    checked themselves

    in a car mirror.

    They tried to scrub them off.

    Too dangerous.

    Can’t take kisses home.

    Doubt ruins dinner.

    Some kisses rested on birds.

    The birds felt a poke,

    chirped their lungs out,

    and flew back to the nest

    as if love had teeth.

    A few landed

    on the window

    on top of the double-decker bus.

    Dusty glass.

    Perfect canvas.

    People stared up.

    Who climbed that high?

    Maybe a naughty driver,

    imagining a beautiful passenger,

    confessing love

    without saying a word.

    There’s a rumour

    the kisses are still flying.

    Hope you caught one.

    I’m already smiling

    here.

  • Life Is This Simple

    Life Is This Simple

    I can come back again

    with baggage of love.

    It may look heavy,

    but it isn’t.

    It is light as cotton,

    stacked on a false heart.

    So you might guess

    love could be fake too.

    No.

    Love will be real.

    But there will be layers upon layers.

    The deeper you go with peeling,

    the more the layers increase.

    And then there will be a moment

    you find nothing.

    Empty.

    Void.

    But it won’t pull you away.

    You will be pulled

    by its subtle force.

    Emotions grow strong there,

    like aged wine.

    Then the whole galaxy

    starts looking small.

    You begin believing

    the sun

    just left one of his parts.

    It feels more than universal art.

    Dreamers fly with you,

    and deep down,

    another dream.

    You zoom your entire life out

    out of curiosity.

    And then you realize

    oh,

    life is this simple.

    Just don’t get caught

    in the entanglement of thinking.

    People move around like atoms.

    They bounce into another orbit

    and disappear.

    Your body is aging,

    but your memory is still stuck there.

    Oh memory, so strong,

    it won’t let you go.

    You are not in space.

    You might be automated.

  • Super Glue

    Super Glue

    Super glue.

    They say

    one drop

    can fix anything.

    Not heal.

    Fix.

    Press.

    Hold.

    Don’t move.

    That’s how it starts.

    A small squeeze.

    A little faith in chemistry.

    Two broken edges

    told to behave.

    Stay.

    Stay like this.

    No questions asked.

    No room for swelling.

    No allowance

    for heat

    or time

    or hands that tremble.

    Super glue doesn’t listen.

    It sets.

    Hardens

    before you finish explaining

    what happened.

    It doesn’t care

    why it broke.

    Just that it did.

    And for a while,

    it works.

    Look.

    Whole again.

    But touch it too long

    and you feel it.

    That stiffness.

    That quiet ache

    where movement used to live.

    Because stone

    is only loyal

    until pressure remembers its job.

    Even the strongest bond

    gets tired

    of pretending it’s alive.

    And when it finally cracks,

    it doesn’t break clean.

    It takes a little skin with it.

    Super glue.

    Strong.

    Fast.

    Certain.

    Good for objects.

    Dangerous

    for hearts.

  • Aged, Not Melted

    Aged, Not Melted

    They call me cheesy.

    Maybe.

    I don’t pour myself on people.

    I learned early

    how spillage gets punished.

    I know how to flirt.

    Properly.

    Timing.

    Silence.

    The look that stops just short of a promise.

    I also learned the price.

    So I queue.

    I stay in my lane.

    I don’t take what isn’t handed to me.

    That’s not innocence.

    That’s restraint with a memory.

    Sometimes I imagine

    a quiet university

    where hearts are books

    and no one lies in the margins.

    You read slowly.

    You don’t tear pages.

    Then the bell rings.

    The world returns.

    I still want.

    I just don’t reach.

    Some days

    that feels like dignity.

    Some days

    it feels like grief.

  • What Do I Complain About the Most?

    What Do I Complain About the Most?

    What do you complain about the most?

    They turned a country into hell.

    My life… into an Alcatraz cell.

    At least that’s what I say

    when I can’t find my socks

    before going out.

    I look under the bed.

    Inside the drawer.

    Behind the door.

    And then…

    there’s the cat.

    One sock in its mouth.

    Running toward the garden

    like it just won a championship.

    I chase.

    I negotiate.

    I lose.

    Now I wear odd socks

    like a part-time circus clown

    in a town

    where they cut down the trees

    and replaced fresh air

    with fresh perfume.

    My job sucks.

    Management are ducks.

    Quack.

    Quack.

    Quack.

    All day.

    I put cotton in my ears

    just to survive the pond.

    Bought a shirt last week.

    Looked perfect in the changing room.

    Now?

    It hugs me too tight.

    Maybe it shrank.

    Maybe I didn’t.

    Maybe it’s the belly fat

    whispering,

    “healthy diet.”

    Why is everything so dim?

    What happened to the light?

    I try to keep calm

    but sometimes the house

    feels like a boxing ring

    and every day

    wants a fight.

    Food doesn’t taste the same.

    Too salty.

    Too fast.

    And who put that long hair in my plate?

    Long enough

    to travel a hundred yards

    if given a visa.

    My plant was supposed to bloom five flowers.

    Only three showed up.

    I water it every day.

    Still, it negotiates.

    The neighbours bray all night.

    Sounds like donkeys

    paying rent next door.

    Potholes in the road.

    Maybe I should plant flowers in them.

    At least something

    would grow.

    Blackheads.

    Pimples.

    Creams that promise miracles

    and deliver… silence.

    Leaders that promise change

    and deliver… speeches.

    And after all that—

    after the socks,

    the ducks,

    the potholes,

    the perfume air—

    I say

    “I really don’t have complaints.”

    These are just everyday things.

    Tiny storms

    in a very ordinary sky.

    Maybe I complain

    because life is still… ordinary.

    Because the worst thing today

    was a missing sock.

    Maybe I complain

    because I have the luxury

    to notice.

    And maybe…

    that’s not hell at all.

    That’s life.

    Still blooming

    three flowers at a time.

  • Those Were the Days of Sixteen

    Those Were the Days of Sixteen

    Those were the days…

    when I was sixteen.

    Sixteen.

    An age where love

    doesn’t knock.

    It just climbs through the window

    and rearranges your heartbeat.

    The bloom of love was sprouting.

    Letters upon letters.

    Poems upon poems.

    Ink was cheap.

    Courage was expensive.

    She didn’t care.

    Or maybe she did.

    Maybe she smiled

    at some of my rhymes

    secretly…

    out of my sight.

    School?

    School was just a medium.

    Coursebooks were excuses.

    Mathematics on the desk…

    poetry in my head.

    I watched her

    from the side benches.

    Always from a distance.

    I never got to sit beside her.

    She was always surrounded.

    Her bodyguards.

    Not muscular.

    No gym memberships.

    Just synchronized frowns

    sharp enough

    to keep boys like me

    in our assigned seats.

    That was alright.

    Beautiful flowers

    stay between thorns.

    But truth is…

    they were good girls.

    They never pricked me.

    They just followed

    the sacred constitution

    of best friendship.

    Ironically,

    they were the ones

    who carried my messages.

    Cryptic messages.

    Codes only she could decode.

    And crush…

    what a dangerous, beautiful word.

    They cross your path.

    They crush your dreams.

    They bridge your heart.

    They seize your feelings

    like emotional pickpockets.

    Whenever the teacher asked a question

    my hand was the first in the air.

    Not because I knew the answer.

    But because

    I needed to exist

    in her line of sight.

    Even if the answer was wrong.

    Even if a stick corrected my confidence.

    I wanted to be first.

    First pick.

    First love.

    First love…

    is a sweet trick.

    The heart plays games

    and calls it destiny.

    First Valentine’s Day.

    I brought greetings.

    Small gifts.

    Bought with money

    saved from skipping lunches.

    Hunger in the stomach.

    Hope in the chest.

    And then…

    Torn apart.

    Right in front of me.

    Paper falling like defeated birds.

    And strangely…

    it was beautiful.

    Because it was her hands.

    Tender hands.

    If someone must tear your feelings,

    let it be the one

    who planted them.

    Painful enough to be sweet.

    Sweet enough to be painful.

    Strong enough

    to let emotions run wild

    like untied shoelaces

    on a running heart.

    Now when I remember those days…

    I don’t feel embarrassed.

    I don’t feel angry.

    I feel sixteen again.

    And somewhere inside this grown body…

    that boy

    is still standing up first

    when love asks a question.

  • Only If I Wouldn’t End Up Loving You

    Only If I Wouldn’t End Up Loving You

    If I wouldn’t end up loving you,

    maybe I would have to hate myself

    for leaving you,

    for leaving your shadow

    on my side of the bed.

    If I wouldn’t end up loving you,

    maybe I would have to hate myself

    for deceiving you,

    for deleting your name

    and still typing it by mistake.

    Life still matters without you.

    It does.

    And maybe yours still matters

    without me.

    But maybe I would have to hate myself

    for letting you go,

    for watching your back

    become a memory.

    Maybe I would have to hate myself

    for forgetting you

    and remembering you anyway.

    Only if

    I wouldn’t end up loving you.

    Only if

    I wouldn’t end up loving you.

  • Pebble

    Pebble

    They mocked him.

    “You’re just a pebble.

    You don’t match our level.

    You will get lost

    mixed with gravel.”

    “If you were shiny,

    you would be picked.

    Cut.

    Polished.

    Worn close to someone’s heart.

    If you carried fossils,

    you would stand behind glass,

    labeled,

    lit,

    admired.”

    “But you?”

    “Just a pebble.”

    It said nothing.

    The river turned him.

    The sun dried him.

    Rain claimed him again.

    It belonged to whatever held him.

    No shine.

    No history.

    No display.

    Just weight.

    Just shape.

    Just silence.

    One day,

    a hand lifted him.

    For a moment

    it rested in a palm

    warm, uncertain.

    Then—

    the sky spun,

    and it surrendered to air.

    It entered the lake

    without argument.

    And the water answered.

    Not with applause.

    Not with glass.

    With ripples.

    Wide enough

    to touch both shores.

  • Makeshift Tent

    Makeshift Tent

    My heart

    was a makeshift tent.

    Not a fortress.

    Not concrete.

    Just fabric

    and faith

    and a few stubborn ropes.

    Wind-bent.

    Storm-bruised.

    It did not know

    how to hold a name

    without shaking.

    Someone once

    lit a fire inside it.

    And I let it burn.

    It rose into lava.

    Bright.

    Wild.

    Uncontained.

    She wanted porcelain.

    Polished mornings.

    Coffee that didn’t taste like smoke.

    I was wildfire.

    She wanted furniture.

    People parked their feelings outside my tent

    like temporary guests.

    I boiled noodles.

    Steam rising like hope.

    They ate.

    Left sketches in the dust.

    Drove away.

    The roof leaked.

    Cold stitched itself

    into my ribs.

    A mouse made a kingdom in the corner

    while I lay there

    pretending fabric

    was enough.

    Some came carrying blueprints.

    “If you choose us

    we will build you a mansion.”

    But I didn’t want marble.

    I wanted someone

    who could sit on the floor

    and share the rain.

    I praised the patience of a turtle

    while the world

    outran itself.

    Finally

    my feelings found a room.

    But the walls were thin.

    Eyes pressed against them.

    Voices turned my shelter

    into spectacle.

    Laser light through canvas.

    Sleep without rest.

    Days folding into days.

    And then…

    One morning

    there was no tent.

    No ropes.

    No fabric.

    No walls.

    Just sky.

    Endless.

    Unapologetic.

    Wide.

    I was afraid

    for a moment.

    Then the stars

    kept their distance

    but did not leave.

    My worries

    small as ash

    drifted.

    The night was big enough

    to hold everything

    I could not.

    So now

    I walk.

    Carrying rope.

    Carrying cloth.

    Carrying fire.

    Looking for ground

    soft enough

    for two.

  • Born to Become

    Born to Become

    do leaves wither

    without a cause

    or do they loosen their grip

    when the branch grows tired

    does love fade

    without a pause

    or does it dim slowly

    like a room forgetting its light

    do plants dance

    without wind

    or are they answering

    a touch we cannot see

    does the wind blow

    without reason

    or is it fleeing

    from an unseen fire

    why does ketchup

    not taste like sauce

    why does almost

    never taste like enough

    if i quit

    is it loss

    or just a doorway

    changing walls

    i was born to win

    not the race

    but the becoming

    if i burst

    throw me snow

    my heart has carried

    too much summer

    bruised by love

    bruised by kindness

    still

    i trust

    i was playing it cool

    cool like silence

    cool like pretending

    i was not running

    but you

    you ran

    you became first

    and i

    i am still here

    learning

    how to breathe