Supreeth Madduri

The sound of a dropped coin  Into the piggy bank sounds like a desperate lover awaiting  at the opened doors of his heart. May be, that's what savings should Sound like. You put all your happiness into a whiff  Of desperation, that you slowly inhale, To make your heart ready to be served. Similar to inserting the coins, one after the other until the intensity fades. The art of saving, require a lot of talents. You need not put all your heart and soul in a single go. Relax. For instance, if the moon is shining bright today, save it for your darker days.  You see? Saving is an art. If you're wasting your love, hold on. Save it in your pockets, in your favorite books, in your diary, in your smile and most importantly in your belief. Let it entangle with every nook and corner of your bones until you feel like investing your savings on something worthwhile.

When you're out of words,  Just breathe. Just that. Your breath is your poetry. And when you do so  Listen to your breath, carefully. Dance around with the                                 silence and you might  as well hear it with a high  Pitched tone. Sometimes, your sweet little                       voice could be your wasted words. But, never mind. Just watch                       those sweet little words kiss                         the heaven. And always remember You're nothing short of the                             masterpiece that you always  Wanted to write.  Because, You are your masterpiece already you are your own poetry. Just breathe.                                                                                                                                                                                                   

The streets of Varanasi looked Familiar to me The bent and holes of the streets  French buildings, confusing  Crowd, deceiving weather And pretty much everything. As and when I started roaming  Around, the reminiscent of  My past started appearing on The walls of down trodden  Buildings, the etched names on the  Bank of the river which might  Have caused wars for land(s). I was lost. Google can get Awkward at times and make you so. I was lost. Completely.  Familiarity helps in ways you can't  Be less thankful for. Familiarity, sometimes, appear in the  Form of sweet words, affection at times  And in love, most of the times. I was lost. I couldn't leave a trail. But my name did. Did I travel the map? no. I just put my name on the map, happily.

Uncanny resemblances.  Of places, of scents, of smiles. Like that in any of the fictional novels, in a romantic love story, in a horror movie,  Possibly, in your poetry. You must have read about this character elsewhere.  Do you see me? Uncanny resemblances. with a stranger at your favorite restaurant,  Or In a tram of secluded hearts, Or In the names of familiarity, Or at your favourite place. Do you feel me? In the end, I'm just a passer by reference  in your story. And you, in mine. We're meant to cross the paths. After all, we are all just stories to be heard. Aren't we?

The best part about train journey is the window seat. For instance, I become a paradox with a window seat. Not the paradox that mind could think about , it's the paradox that, only the heart knows. The moving mountains, flying hair,  'Tuhi re' playing along, the train's shakiness putting me into sleep as the train sounds its  Lullaby. Is someone singing along, or is it the train? I wonder how perfectly Rahman's albums frames its lyrics with the window, itself. May be that's what moving keys on his piano mean. Also, that's what a hypnotist does to you. You're aware of your heart beat, not the senses; that you enjoy losing. I am the guy who quotes 'the part about reaching the destination is its journey towards it' I am the guy for whom R N Jayagopal songs has been written down for I am the guy who puts paradox across the minds Mostly, I am the guy by the window seat.

I have read about Casanova,  Cleopatra in the pages of  lust and seduction;  Whose eyes were made of love and perfection. I have read about the cosmos, about the space, about the time, about space-time, the dimensions, about parallelism in universe, And also about your selectivity  Of actions and words. Strip me your thoughts of far away world of granular dust hovering around. The art of seduction, as the books  mention, is a sardonic expression. Space and time slips away to  a world where 'Einstein' is an alienated term, with you standing naked with your words, alongside me. Looking beneath all the myths and theories, I find your eunoic to be far more seductive.

I see faint light glimmering through the hole of hope, flickering incessantly. I strive pretty hard  to get back at you, like a cuckoo popping out every hour, reminding  me of how eager I am at the closed doors of your heart. May be I shouldn't have met you, in the first place. Second of all, I shouldn't have  dreamt about our children,  our house, or anything with you in it. May be, you were my favorite lesson in my history class. Just so you know,  I used to hate history, Only to eventually admire it now. I stare at the flickering light missing your palms  and talk to myself  Saying, whatever will  happen, will happen. And may be that's how  I should be living. Picture courtesy: arvin_illustration (Instagram)