Single Teardrop


There are no words left

After the last teardrop ends.

Such a foolish being I was to pretend

I knew all there is to know about sadness and tears

Mere water, minerals and other little substances

Unlike they are carrying secrets of a thousand years.

Would I be most lucky

If I could take one of them,

A single teardrop

Freeze it forever in time,

And watch the ball drop.

So I could learn all the secret wisdom within

Learn about my pain, my joys, my angst, my aching

Learn about why a certain smell or time sends me rotating

But most of all, take back all the words it seems to keep taking

From my lips.

I want something to say but from my mind it continuously slips.

Alas, there is no science 

That can recapture the words that evaporated with the tears

No science to metaphorically condense 

Those escaped words back into something that makes sense

Definitely not back into liquid for inside the ink of my pen

Sometimes all of time feels futile; past-present-future blend

The fact is, here I am, facing a reality most grim; 

Accepting that sometimes, even words can face a tragic end

By a single teardrop.

Dark Sky

October 8, 2019

Two Months

It would have been my father’s birthday today. Allah yerhamu. This poem was written last October.


Two months.

The saying goes, “time heals.”

But I don’t think so. It only strips the surreal.

I think time simply reveals

That the agony is deeper and more real

Than the strongest part of us thought it could conceal.

Because the thought of re-awakening wounds,

Re-living sweet memories buried in stormy hearts

Embracing our unbearable vulnerability

Tears us inwardly violently apart

In a million ways.

Granted, time can heal. And it needs to at times.

Time will heal hurt, bad moments, unpleasant lies.

But what if I only have fond memories of you,

Memories that act as explosive fuel

For enough warmth to set my heart ablaze?

Frankly, if healing means slowly forgetting you

Then I forget who I am, too

So no, I don’t want to heal from this

Remembering you and all you gave me of bliss

This is grief.

And, in brief,

I will learn to breathe through it

Simply because I must, 

and I know you

Wouldn’t have wanted my soul to rust.

I will learn,

Through secret tears that burn,

To take all the knots in my crowded heart

And make a silk rope; just a part

Of my brilliant plan to keep climbing up

That I might be fortunate enough to be your kinda cup

Of tea

At least half as kind, sweet

Half as intelligent a mind,

Half as chivalrous as you were.

I cannot wait for time

To never heal me from remembering you and your legacy.

Looking on the bright side of an endlessly dark tunnel,

Grieving is a beautiful thing, I must say

Beautiful in its own twisted, ironic and desperate way

It’s beautiful to know that this terrible feeling

Meant I knew and loved someone worth the grieving

And that alone is a kind of healing.

Two months down.

A lifetime more to go.

Pink Moving Clouds

-October 11, 2019


Beauty Can Be Cruel

Beauty can be cruel
In all the right ways.
I normally love this season, but these days…
As I breathe in the freshness of autumn,
As I drink in all the hues
As I savour colors of warmth from leaves
Skies adorned with all shades of blues
I can’t help but wonder
At how majestic beauty can be so cruel.

All these colours, ever transitioning
Mock my black and white feelings
Numb… then exuberant joy… numb… then intensely sorrowful
The canvas of colours
Mocks my tendency right now to just feel awful.
And that sun! Glorious and high
Mocks the solid darkness lurking inside
And the wind; pure, clear and uplifting
Mocks the fact I feel I am drowning.
You see, it is the first gorgeous season
I experience without you.
Put aside black and white,
Can anyone blame me for feeling a little navy blue?

But I need this.
If mocking me is the only renewable fuel
To pull me out of deep waters
Then by all means, let the beauty of autumn
Continue to be cruel.

Orange Bursts

October 28, 2019