Sapphirism

i’ve only ever seen tulips on stock pictures and good morning messages. but your two lips i see everyday, those perennially sweet lips whether glistening or dry, in mirth or in sorrow, sometimes bitten in shyness or contemplation. i want to bite them too. i want your teeth to bump into mine, clinking as we ration the air between us. my tongue your lip liner, my eyes your mirror, my face, your canvas. i want to surrender my inhibitions  and let you make an impact on me: mark me yours. keep me buzzed on you like a bee is to flowers. i want your two lips to usher in my good mornings. i want to drink in the nectar of your thoughts and  whisper to you stories of my own. i want your lips to be the prototype of lips—the only image my mind conjures when i hear the word. in this region, tulips are scarce. but what reason  have i to complain, your two lips can bloom  into the loveliest smile in the world?  

The waxing crescent hangs low over Liyue. The streets are illuminated by fire lanterns, casting a soft glow on the stone path. Zhongli and Childe stand outside the entrance of Liuli Pavilion, their stomachs and hearts warm with the wholesome food and enriching conversation. They’ve been doing this for weeks now, long enough to know that this is where they part ways. Tomorrow will bring another sun, and they will begin another day, bound by their respective duties and contracts. But at this moment, as they gaze at each other, with the cool night breeze running her fingers through their hair, they can pretend that this is eternity. A capsule of eternity in their hands, a spell broken only when one of them reaches forward to kiss the other goodnight.  Yet tonight, Childe doesn’t want to let Zhongli go. Maybe it’s an effect of the way his eyes shone as he spoke about the ingredients and history of the Slow Cooked Bamboo Shoot Soup they ordered tonight. Or maybe it is the sleek black-and-go

i press a palm to her cold marble sternum. the polished stone mirrors the moonlight, holding the beauty it can never possess. come daylight, her flesh will be flushed with vitality, the sepia hues filling in every fold of her skin. the night enveloping us is the throbbing heartbeat of the world, the crickets playing the violin to their lovers on balconies, leaves singing lullabies to the breeze, which carries it to the curtains, making them dance. her shadow flickers like a flame on the rustling fabric, like the flame at Rochester's bedside that set his room ablaze. the moon shivers and the curtains open into her face like a rose in full bloom. her eyes are self-illuminating stars. her lips glisten from our kiss. her breaths are shaky--and limited, i realise. her impermanence is washable chalk on the slate of the earth. one day, my hand, slow and sorrowful, would pass over the cold marble of her mausoleum, mourning the beauty that could not stay. her body, formerly animated, would

tw: abuse, death, trauma how seasonal, her love is. the summer has sucked it dry. you chase the shimmering mirage of perfection, running until your lungs burn, your muscles scream, until black spots dance in your vision. your eyes sting from the sand in her words, leaking salt. her fist clenches around your heart. she carves in wounds to match her hurt. you love her, despite. you love her, because. you love her, and it is your ruin. you do not choose yourself. but you're selfish, just a little. you see, she loves someone she wants you to be. you wish you could be that person. but you don't allow her to chisel you into perfection because individuality. the nerve of you. you recall that lignocaine summer when you loved her with closed lids. love was always conditional, but the terms were easier before the update. now you hide like a rat in the bathroom and insulate the pain with tears, like water cleansing a bloody scrape. your chest heaves. your mouth gasps for air. you recall t

When my parents are old,  I'd love to show them flying cars in our country.  I'd love to show them that the man who washes cars  Also owns one. I saw an ad the other day  Of a girl cross-dressing to go to school.  I hope that it turns into a choice,  Not the necessity that it is for some.  I hope there are lesser people  With their hands outstretched at street lights, streaming eyes  And more of those who are able to give.  I hope we wear our identities proudly on our chests,  But not so proudly to be haughty to those who carry badges of different colours.  Or those, who worship different gods.  I hope that all the little children of my country run amok in the streets  And jump over pebbles to go to school,  And don't wipe the dirty dishes in a grubby restaurant.  Or someone's house.  I hope women don't have to think twice before leaving the house at midnight,  Or when they raise their voice against the pay gap.  I hope there are more ears than voices,  And that no

i can't pinpoint the time when 95% became the bare minimum. like those maths questions where you assume an unknown value to be x, my parents assume that i'm smart. they think it's linear, they can put x in any equation, push me to participate in every competition and expect me to do well because i'm smart . what they don't understand is that smartness is not set in stone, it is more like a dynamic equilibrium, like homeostasis, and i need to smoke this textbook jargon on a daily basis if i want to be remotely good.   funnily, it's always unspoken. the pregnant pause when i come back home on results day. their expectant half-smile. how the numbers flood their eyes like a slot machine and how there's always a 9 in the tens place if the hundreds place is empty. the question is tossed with feigned nonchalance over the dining table, how much did you score ? if it is satisfactory, then dinner goes on without any hiccups. if not, then the numbers are wielded agains

Today, the lake has frozen over, And the raucous, murky serpent swirls Beneath the still water. A state of sedation. Every movement, a slice into the unknown. The lurching device desperately pumps, But the great many sheets of ice lay unresponsive, Like an unimpressed lover, Or a website with no internet. Oh, to restore the connection, To redraw the lines between the self and the other, To grace the nurturing coast once again. Photo by  riciardus  from  Pexels

black tyres. brown puddle. white kitten.  slate bump. slight crunch. sick churn. brown tyres. red puddle. dead kitten.

We read about it in our history books and see it in the daily news: humans turning arms against one another, whole cities exploding in a plume of smoke and ash, animals being brutalised to serve our greed, species of numerous organisms driven to the verge of extinction and countless other cruelties. For all our glorious achievements of mapping the stars and stripping the atom down to its quarks, we humans are selectively blind to the hurt we have inflicted upon the planet and its people. We put on a veil of indifference that allows us to ignore issues like racism, gun violence, climate change, and terrorism when they do not affect us directly. We allow our prejudices to take root and prevent us from feeling pain for the black man who was murdered by a white police officer. We turn the other way when we see the transgender girl being kicked out of her family for the “outrageous crime” of being born into the wrong body. We forget all about the dog who was crippled by an overspeeding mini

my mother’s drawer is a magpie’s nest. her restless treasures sizzle under the scant sunlight. her watchful, furtive, darting eyes. then her hands slam the drawer shut. she flares at my longing stares. don’t you touch it or i’ll have your guts for garters. mummy and daddy are out until noon. i slip, slither, slide. gleam. swoon. head plunged into a cold green chest filled with gold watches that don’t tick and teardrop-shaped pearls and my pretty china doll that mum claimed was lost. (hiss.) there’s a box the size of a Frooti pack. on the cover’s a handsome man with tousled hair. a woman with parted lips trails a digit down his chiselled chest. the picture of a strawberry. it looks like Dark Fantasy and Fruit-tella had a baby. the offspring of two forbidden fruits, staring right at me. fervent fingertips tear through the tin foil and pull out a pink ringed soft rubber and taste it. bland. sticky. the raised isometric dots like goosebumps on my tongue. what is this thing? grownups have

Your silence is the summons commanding me to the defendant’s table, Where I sit beside your lingering shadow And put my tongue on trial. I beseech your blind, impartial eyes To weigh my words and declare, What is it I said that made you leave? (Was it because I laid my soul bare?) The attorney sifts through our filtered polaroids. He examines the fangs behind your grin, And the claws behind your caresses. Hands are wrung, words are chewed. The strands of time are combed again, The knots harshly yanked. Then the gavel is struck: I hear the verdict from your unmoving lips, Those words of censure from your closed mouth Which echo louder than your declarations of love; It is a dangerous thing when love and justice are both blind. Photo by  Sora Shimazaki  from  Pexels