Person of the Year

To the one who endured it all.

Didn't complain.

Sobbed in the crevices of the Soul.

Woke in the middle of the nights

yawning for sleep patterns.

Held beliefs contrary to the popular.

Forgot that the calendar year comes to an end,

because actually it doesn't and understood

Life is a continuous halo sewed

with patchwork of struggles 

so intricately worked upon,

no one seems to notice:

a cloth sold in flea markets.

To the one 

mindful of the fact that

throes of survival are unpoetic

even when recounted at the year-end

to one's own family and friends.

Dissembling

Fingers sponge

the corners of the eyes and

make rivers disappear.

Knuckles persuade the nose

to behave.

Palms desiccate the cheeks -

an extended reluctant smile.

-

Hands speak an elite language

to a makeup laden face

burdened with grief.

Perfume

(for Ovais Ahmad)

He took his time to speak,

which he often does,

unknotting the moments,

to qualify it appropriately

so that

I understand exactly 

what he intended to convey.

petrichor - you know?

something closer to the feeling,

he paused.

The details then -

he bought that

particular perfume,

although expensive,

because its aroma reminded him

of something he couldn't enter

on his own.

Hence, throughout the day,

happily, 

even at night -

he carried his own grave with him

like some personalized pillow,

like crucial documents.

Throughout,

his body was his own grave.

He smelled Human -

spirited and decaying

hic et nunc.