Asylum

Whenever I look at a sunflower

it’d remind me of you. 

Sunflowers are metaphors for 

the people around whom you feel alive. 

I have an open field inside of me

wherein the wind echoes your laugh.

The open field has always been filled

with roses, that your presence has watered.

If this is what the poets call love, then I’ve

laced far too many notebooks with the idea of you.

How everything eventually is about you?

How sometimes i go sleepless at nights, but then

How I yearn to sleep a little bit more

because you came into my dreams.

How I grieve when I am not close to you?

But then what is grief, if not love persevering.

What is grief, if not love with no place to go,

that corners in your eyes, and 

in the hollow part of your chest?

What is love, if not the poem 

scracthed on the walls of my throat.

How I’d want to linger near the door

uncomfortably, rather than leaving.

How I’d want you to forget your scarf

and come back later, to find it. 

What is love, if not everything that I feel for you?

For it was when you allowed me to enter

your world, when I was scared of mine. 

Toh aakhir Kaha chala hai man ka rasta? 

Tumhare paas. 

-aaditya.