amboli ghat


i can feel

         the earth



                                   the stony steps

                                                 and trickling

                                                              waterfalls –

                                                                        a poignant reminder

                                                                        of what is really ours.



white foam


dark waters

that scream at me

to let them escape into

this fantasy 

of death and denial.


I am falling through space and time like an asteroid heading for explosion. I can see her nubile body waiting for me. There is still time for the final charge. I am not ready, and neither is she. Her eyes are like tiny jewels from up here, watching me in anticipation. I am lost in them. Everything else ceases to be. I am for her, and she is made for me. Metal glinting on metal, and the dripping noises made by my comrades – tiny distractions, like the sunlight burning through my heart. Somewhere far from my realm of existence, voices sing of love and beauty. The morning sun shines for them, and only for them. For me, I love in pain, for I know that as the dawn rises, my journey will begin and there will be no return. Her voice has joined theirs, and my world is complete. Her voice cannot be described – it is like hearing angels sing in a city made of ruins and rusted iron, just like mine. But it is mine, and so is she. The first rays of the sun hit, and I burst forth in glorious colours – blue, violet, red and orange. And I can finally see her. She is perfection. Her robes lie on broken pipes, and her heart on my broken body. I am awaiting my own destruction with an inexplicable excitement. The pipes have grown eyes to watch us unite, so have the showers and the taps that float above me, and so have my comrades, who are ever so desirous; I can feel them in my head – the constant drip-drip, the sudden splatter as they give away their lives for those petty nymphs who do not know them. But mine – mine is special. She understands me. I am sure of it. I am closer to her now, so much that I can see the tiny hairs on the small of her back rise up in goose-pimples with every passing breeze. I can see every hair of her brow and the shades of gold that others so envy. Inside, I am a calamity. A calamity stronger than the one that hit Armilla a million years ago and destroyed the walls and our peace and our privacy. But that is not important, for she is now nearly ready. She is climbing into the bathtub, her slender thighs brushing across the cold iron with a smoothness and sexuality so subtle and overwhelming, I nearly break. She lies down. Her breasts heave with every breath. Her delicate, feminine fingers run though her hair. Her braid, once made of gold and azure, falls apart, and she has never looked more beautiful. She is ready, but I am not. I am falling as planets align themselves and the stars come out in the morning sun and the winds waft to whisper goodbye. I am falling as colours split apart into more and thread every strand of the city with my emotions. I am falling as galaxies collide and Armilla – Armilla faces the tragedy it did before: of a thousand storms and floods, each one of them pouring out from me; and she – she is all I can see. Those soft hazel eyes look up softly. And as we unite the universe closes in on itself and my heart falters like that of a dying star and hundred colours explode all at once and suddenly, there is nothing at all.