Vanilla Twilight

You know, those memories of childhood?
The ones which feel make believe?
Well, mine involved orange skies and
the sun eaten up by the seas
A football net and ducks waddling on the shore
It's funny how well we remember such intricate details
about the places we haven't even been to before.
I close my eyes and I am back
to that beach that has no name
And it seems like it is the only place
I can truly call home
A gentle breeze grazes my cheek
And I smile
For it's a day that perhaps didn't actually happen
which is the favorite day of my life.
I open my eyes and can't stop smiling
for I see the those orange skies reflecting back
in yours
And  somehow I am sure
I have a real favorite memorythis time
finally a real home.

SAFE HAVEN

I opened the door and quietly sneaked in.

And was immediately hit by the familiar scent of what was the only thing that felt like home lately. The room is dimly lit, almost dark, but for the flickering bulb refusing to die just yet. Had it not been for the ricketing excuse of a fan; hanging on a wire (literally), it would have been so quiet you could even hear your eyes blink. Well, the fan, and Raj Anna. Raj Anna is gently snoring in the corner, perched comfortably on his worn out rocking chair;the only perk of working in this hundred year old library, as he often tells me. And I always disagree, for each page of the gazillion books sitting gracefully on the shelf tops offer you infinitesimal reasons of spending hours, even days over here. I tiptoe to my corner of the dusty books filled with yellowing pages and tattered jackets. Battered and torn and used and abused, much like me. But also loved and cherished and still useful, perhaps like me. 

"What is it going to be today, miss?" I ask myself as I take one. The title has almost faded from the spine and the front jacket is covered with an inch of dust. "The perfect canvas." I muse, tracing flowers and stars over the dusty jacket. The corner has perhaps been eaten up by moths so all I can read is Pride and Preju-. Well who cares about the corners anyway. A little something written in blue calligraphy peeps at me from the torn corner.
"Dear Jeeru,
I don't know if it was pride that kept me away from you all this time, or my prejudice of the odds always being against us. But I guess

that doesn't matter anymore, for what is Mr. Darcy save for his Liz. (Saved by her too.)
Always.
Ajay."
I smile as a treacherous tear goes astray. Atleast some always would stand the test of time, even if only between the pages of the book, I think, as I open one more door and quietly sneak in.

Dear stranger I am in love with

Dear stranger I am in love with
You don't know me, and how would you; for every time I muster the courage to go and say hello to you my knees buckle and my stomach threatens to lurch and don't even ask about the speed with which my heart begins to race, like it's in the final lapse of the F1. Thank god for my rib cage, otherwise I am pretty sure I wouldn't have a heart anymore. At least now you would know the reason for the constricted face I make when you smile at me when we pass each other in the corridors. I promise I am not acting like a bitch, I am just worried my heart doesn't jump out of my throat while doing somersaults. I am not sure if you are a stranger to me now, for I have seen all your pictures; from when you were a little boy dressed as a joker for fancy dress, to the time you rescued Ram Laddu (He sounds more like a halwai than a dog by the way), all the way to your graduation pictures. I remember all your statuses like they were asked in my board exams and have religiously browsed the comment section in each of your posts like it's relevant in national interest. It would be safe to say I tread on dangerous waters for you while stalking your instagram from 67 weeks ago. So we are not strangers anymore, at least not for me. I have already imagined all the possible circumstances life might put us in, how I might stumble on you sitting in a quaint cafe reading Murakami, when I am more confident and prettier and can finally call out your name casually like it's no big deal and even be bold enough to strike a conversation about why I think Norwegian Wood sells you short. And then we start dating and I can finally get to tell you how dreams actually come true sometimes.
But until then I can only gawk from afar and seethe with envy as the hot popular girls flirt with you like it's no big deal. Waiting for you to say hello, and praying for my tongue to not close in on me again.