Teri Justajoo

You were a thought.
Like, dust on dupatta.
Like, sun on the skin.
Feet in the water.
Face in a pillow.
Stripes on an ankle-sock.

You are a thought
I keep forgetting.

Somewhere

Somewhere someone woke up to a kiss.

Somewhere someone fell out of a dream.

Somewhere someone sat on top of a carousel, stuck.

Somewhere someone spiraled down 40,000 feet and into a deathless sea.

Somewhere someone watched the late night news and broke down.

Somewhere someone got their plaster signed in violet ink.

Somewhere someone began to walk away.

Somewhere someone wished to hold a hand.

Somewhere someone set off a firework.

Somewhere someone watched it burn the sky.

Somewhere someone thought of all these people.

Somewhere someone thought of all these people.

The Sidewalk

You are in your ever-old grey hood.

Walking down the leafy sidewalks in

mindless little steps. The cold consoles

your crippled thoughts as 

Red leaves chase yellow

ones and you 

chase their playmates from

a hundred autumns back. Where do

ghosts go for a walk, 

then?

In The Name of Poetry

The idea was to unlove you.

I'm not saying my ideas have ever been foolproof, but

this one had a quiet brilliance about it,

apparently.

The idea was to uncount the grassy sunsets and

unmemorize the lazy peace. The idea was to 

unlearn the memories till they became a shade

we never wore on our hoods and sneakers. 

I'm not saying my ideas have ever been

wasteful, but this one had to be shot down,

apparently.

The idea is to love you.

In the name of poetry.

Apparently.

Shadows not your Own

Silhouettes and

shadows and

light-strings

hanging, you

make a pretty picture and I, 

a scattered one.

Oblivion

Clockwork Postcards fly

through yellow

wisps of Yesterdays.

Wildflower bookmarks 

and fraying envelope browns, whatever

happened

to innocence - ? 

Oshtomi

Eight Yards of feeling beautiful.

Three breaths of leafy murmurs.

Petals and Pistols.

A Kajol and a camera.

The Bestfriend and the

sidewalks. The

school-gate and the sad eyes.

The Dhaak-wallahs and

the undecidedness

all  lit up in silver

oil-lamps:)