It’s been only eighteen minutes I have read your e-mail thrice. I read it and re-read it in hope For some feeling of love and its kind. You never did say much Not, with me. You did not. I often wondered. And now your words They are hurting. They do. But you know. You write…
It was Sylvia Plath’s birthday on Monday. Her poems haunt me – time and again – they have healed and hurt me, at different times. Memories. Broken glass. Numb heart. Unspoken words. And this is a beautiful song version of the “Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Carol Anne McGowan. Goosebumps.
The rains have gone Making way for the sun That ball of orange is glad to be back Where it belongs. The first rays traipse in, almost Their homecoming is silent. Then she looks up once Then she looks up twice. Then she looks askance. And now there is a smile in her glance. Marigold…
There are things that should have happened between us. There are things that shouldn’t have. There are truths that should have been told. There are lies that should have been upheld. There are fake smiles that should have stayed put. There are genuine creases that should have become grooves. There are fears that we should…
He looked at her. Hungry. “You complete me.” She dabbed some green eye-shadow as he spoke. Fidgety. Fickle. “You fulfill me.” She drew the contours of her left eye with the new kohl-liner. She looked at him from the reflection in the mirror. Forlorn. Formidable. Friend-less, he seemed. She hated attachment. She went on to…
You must be logged in to post a comment.