Last week, I couldn’t make it to a dear friend’s convocation. While the guilt didn’t eat me alive (not because our friendship, NAY, BROHOOD isn’t worth much, but because I’m not one for ceremonies. I’m not very ceremonious, I’m just an unceremonious man), I had to make up. So after a long day at work amidst a long week when she asked me to write something, I was not amused. So I wrote this – taking out my anger at the words, making them levitate with my fingers, controlling them with my brain.

She asked for this, I’d be remiss if I can’t comply, supply the demands and reprimands from a friendship that grows, like bros we started and here we are, afar, apart yet bloody close disclosing all things bringing clinging ringing thoughts rotting clotting wounds that pain drain away eat us inside at least I have you, meet me tomorrow your sorrows I’ll borrow at least you have me.

She asked for this I cannot diss the only one that lingers on, in thoughts that rot away, clotting slowly blotting away, plotting insomnia of the mind unkinder things have happened in the past casting shadows I call it darkness even as drenching quenching my thirst I clench it tightly not letting it go so no not long ago there was no light in sight or insight no respite despite my tries and cries misty eyes so often it showed and haunted and taunted jaunting my daunting need, greed really to have everything in view few have that even fewer on cue skew are the needs to be in control it takes a toll as tears roll down the cheeks the weakness reeks

She asked for this, instead of a kiss on the very cheeks stained by the tears that drain the eyes but oh, those thighs like staring at clear skies pies of cherry and apple filled with rum a conundrum I face now and how!

She asked for this, even if a sliver of bliss or joy it derives I thrive and strive to never deprive her of things I can do even if ever so few I’ve been there I came I saw and then I came again, the filth I am being lowly slowly rotting away leave me be now to my clotting blots and blotting clots lots of love and love of lots in slots of four the shots await tomorrow we shall because you’re alive of course this discourse must end descending the fall never tilting or wilting or leaning, don’t tilt and I’ll fight with you to the hilt because she asked for this


That’s us indulging in tomfoolery outside Colaba Social. She’s tiny but because I”m so good with words and all – petite.