"There are some books that refuse to be written. They stand their ground year after year and will not be persuaded. It isn't because the book is not there and worth being written -- it is only because the right form of the story does not present itself. There is only one right form for a story and if you fail to find that form, the story will not tell itself...."

A tiny lens in a machine....

I saw her standing there, trying hard not to cry,
Today there's a purple shadow around her right eye,
She comes on monday afternoons and friday nights,
There's always something new to mark the new fight.

He looks more than twelve and less than fifteen,
Straight hair, fair skinned and unmistakably feminine,
Comes in a group of ten, everyday at around one,
They push him around, grab his cash and run.

Thursday nights - a tanned guy with a silver nose ring,
Broad shoulders, long hair, a cuter version of Dhoni,
Smiles like he has a personal joke that he aint sharing,
Looks right at me, blows flying kisses just before leaving.

Chinky old uncle with his 3 inches specs,
Has bout 10 strands of hair on his shiny bald head,
Something is definitely very wrong with his sight,
Punches his numbers ten times before he gets it right.

You must have visited an ATM machine,
What you don't see is the tiny camera within,
I'm the one behind the surveillence device and screen,
I know some of you a little, even though I'm unseen.

7 floors down.....

Sitting on the floor in front of the closet,
Looking at your shirts, many shades of russet,
Never did notice that your were so partial to brown,
Next to you I must have looked like a colourful clown,
I can almost feel you here as I hold ur soft cotton pants,
Remembering you wearing them during our last dance,
I'm folding your socks, the blacks with the blue,
Knowing if they're mismatched, it irritates you,
An intoxicating scent was brought in by this wind,
Your cologne was made to make women sin,
I see our bed at the corner of my eye,
A towel lies there, by now it must be dry,
Your Robert Ludlum's "The matarese countdown",
Is left at our nightstand, folded at page 121,
I'm still living with you in this room for two,
How I miss your constant instructions on what to do,
People think I'm crazy, sinking in suppressed sorrow,
I really am not that upset we didn't have our tomorrow,
You left me here with a roomful of memories,
I thought I could go on living like this for centuries,
Sometimes I can still feel you hugging me tight,
And those careless and clumsy, sleepy kisses at night,
Just coz I love you, it doesn't mean you're off the hook,
I'm still angry that you didn't teach me how to fish and to cook,
What am I doing alone, answer me if you can,
What now mr perfectionist, what happen to your fool-proof plan,
Our account book is not done, but the bills are paid,
You know I hate numbers, oh! and I've sacked the maid,
Living like this, surrounded by everything that's you,
The temptation to come to you is killing me too,
One day in this room when your scent is not found,
I'll put my feet at the balcony railing to make my final jump.