It is four in the morning, and we are going nowhere fast. I want to curl myself around him and fill in all the empty spaces that make him feel alone. But I won’t, simply because to do so would be irresponsible.

I can no longer be irresponsible.

I feel his gaze on me, so I turn to receive it. His eyes, blue in the daylight, are now grey in the cover of the night; they look at me with a precision, they are deliberate, sure, and demanding.

He demands of me everything that I am not.

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Equivalent Synonyms

I often ask people what language they dream in because I want to know the words to which their hearts respond.

The dictionary is based on the hypothesis — obviously an unproven one — that languages are made up of equivalent synonyms.
-Jorge Luis Borges

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Of Hands and Hearts

A and I had gone dancing; I had finally surrendered to the pull of the music and with some concerted effort, allowed myself to be led.

I had come to adore the subtle romance of the bachata, and for the last dance A dipped me gracefully and whirled me right back up with impeccable finesse. He was one of the best dancers, if not the best dancer there.

I was happy to be there and be privy to this part of his inner world.

We met up with the guys afterwards for tea and shisha, as we are accustomed to. It was an unusually cold night for the Sandbox at the cusp of spring, and so I warmed my hands by the fire.

“Your hands are the closest I’ve ever been to your heart.” said A sincerely.

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Thank you.

For the luxury of changing my mind, my opinions, and beliefs about the world.

For the understanding that value and worth are not dictated by the external world.

For the appreciation of a steady hand. For your integrity; when it was needed, your draconian measures.

For the bullet through the brain. For the arrow through the heart.

For the pressure. For all that you demanded of me, and demanded me to be.

For never treating me like a child, even when I was acting like one.

For making it clear to me that one can be born into obscurity; one does not have to live out one’s days there.

For letting me go. For knowing better than I did; that it was time to let go.

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Some souls
spend eternity
each other
endlessly –

and over
and over

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Letters to Vera

There is nothing more erotic than to be understood. “I won’t hide it: I’m so unused to being — well, understood, perhaps, — so unused to it, that in the very first minutes of our meeting I thought: this is a joke… But then… And there are things that are hard to talk about — […]

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a suitcase
has always been
I have trained
in the discipline
of traveling

a suitcase
has always been
never as
as the unraveling of
the heart.

Read More Baggage


I am not
the storms
that rage on the surface
of oceans.

I am the chasm
that aches to be kissed
by the sun.

Dive deep.

Read More Aphotic

Déjà Vu

They say we spend the rest of our lives falling for our first love. She becomes the poem you write over and over. He becomes the portrait you can’t stop painting. She is the object of every love song. He is every face in the maddening crowd. You find her in every shadow, him in […]

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“The first time I kissed him…” I smiled, consumed by the warmth of the memory. “Tell me,” A inquired, having never heard me speak of romance before, “did you kiss him or did he kiss you?” And so I told him the story: how my hands met his skin in surrender, the way the water […]

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Once Upon a Sandbox Winter

I talk about the lives I used to love. He blathers on about Rushdie’s egregious misuse of the English language, which I staunchly defend. He tells me about all these words, how they are all just shouts in the void. We volley this idea back and forth until we finish our meal, and for a brief sliver of time, I am unencumbered by the things on the long list of things that adulthood demand of me. Life is simple again.

I briefly get to talk to F and S over the phone, and tonight they feel like they are right next to me and not hundreds of miles away. Love feels close and within my reach again.

I cross the street to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy and catch my own reflection on the glass door as I exit: my dress, rich gold and green satin, is cold on my skin and flutters – as I move – in the late evening breeze with such liquid grace. In this particular moment I cease to be just another Asian expatriate in the gulf and J’s Land Cruiser is no longer just a truck with leather seats gloved in faux fur. Tonight, I am an exotic Indian princess about to ascend onto my palanquin perched on a white elephant.

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Stay. The word is so foreign to my lips. I have been other places; so many other places that nowhere is ever truly strange, and here is never really ‘home’.

Read More Stay


One day, you are – by some fluke – early for your flight. You have checked in online, packed your signature leather weekender [properly this time], and still have 3 hours to kill at the airport. Being a creature of habit, you return to old haunts; you grab a chai latte and head for the bookshop. […]

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Second Cup

It was a little past midnight and we had been talking for hours. The cups sit on the table – now cold and empty. “It’s a shame that I am leaving.” he says. “It is, very much so. But you won’t be forgotten.” I reassure him. “You are the only bright thing I ever found […]

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“You are,” he said, his voice wavering in hesitation, “the kind of girl people read about in books.” “I think it helps to know which type of book you are referring to.” I laughed. “The kind I like.” he replied. “The maddening kind; the one that you must write about.”

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Here I am, out in the world. I want you to know that I think of the things we talk about quite often; your dreams, plans, and hopes.

Some days I feel so lost in this city. I feel so lost in the world which hasn’t quite embraced me yet. I’ve moved so often that I think I’ve forgotten how to grow roots.

Most days I feel like a shout in the void; just more white noise.

The things I want out of life – the dreams, hopes, plans – terrify me. They are all so much bigger than myself that I must be mad. But there is this thing, this feeling inside me that moves me to just keep on branching out.

But no matter, I am trying to love the questions and everything that remains unresolved in my heart.

…the messages that go unanswered
…the glass ceiling that wont budge
…the things all the years of theory will never prepare me for
…the intervals of waiting
…the hard decisions
…the ongoing chase

One day.

I just hope I am not foolishly searching my branches for the things I can only find in my [presently non existent] roots.

I am learning a lot from you. A lot more than you’d imagine.

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The Year of Free Falling

Last year, I turned to Anis Mojgani’s Year of No Mistakes for my year’s anthem. This year, this is my own: The Year of Free Falling Let me call this The Year of Free Falling. This is the year to start again. The year of second chances. The year to try. This is the year of no […]

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We Are Apples

I have already emptied myself. I kissed regret goodbye, took the hands of another backwards angel, and rode backwards into the rain.

Darling, we are apples. Our love is an arrow. I’m unbuttoning my shirt, painting a circle over my heart. Please, just shoot straight.

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