Puff of Smoke

Yes, I met an old friend today.

Yes, he gave me a smile of recognition.

"Where have you been?" He asked brightly.
 "Busy being happy." I winked.
 "I was lurking around there only," he smirked, "Just around the corner of your happiness."

I chuckled and he chuckled back.

Then I strained my brain to remember his name.

"Um.. I forgot your name." I asked unabashedly. (We are comfortable that way, he wouldn't feel bad.)

"Oh, don't you remember?! My name is Disappointment!" He beamed at me before vanishing into a puff of smoke.

Deception

Would you reveal the real you if I start scratching that fake paint off you?

Would you leave me wondering, sorting your may-have-been lies from the possibly honest (if at all) words?

Would you let me a glance up the dark tunnels of your eyes, just to see where you hide your demons?

Would your lips tremble when you'd make false reassurances?

Would your nose wrinkle in disgust while your palms reek of the blood of the truth?

Would that ten headed Ravan in your head make a little place for Ram?

Would you let me save you?

Brave

'NO, I DON'T CARE!' She hisses under her breath like an angry goose.

The Small Voice Inside Her Head smiles slyly.

'You DO.'

She convinces herself- NoNoNoNoNo. It's a distraction- she knows, a trap; she isn't going to give in and make herself vulnerable.

She musters all her hatred when he is around. She snaps at him, seethes with dislike, fumes with anger. Her fists clench and jaw tightens. Instinctively.

Yet when their eyes meet for a brief moment- longer than a casual glance and milder than a hostile glare, the walls of makeshift hatred melt like icicles in the sun.

And many such times, she averts her eyes, just to remain brave.

Chase

What am I running behind?

Money? More money?

Ambitions?
Two good words from someone?

It's so tiring; waiting, expecting, waiting... All the dreams once seen now seem like a mirage- out of reach and evasive. Proud moments of success seem nothing more than a happy illusion that never actually mattered.

I try to shun things, smile, overwork, in the hope that it would get any better and the void is filled with some temporary joy.

Each day is a challenge- to pick up the pieces of myself from the last night and to get on, to create an illusion of normalcy.

Because running away has never been an option. For every night, all my choices catch up with me no matter what. They look at me puppy-eyed, expectantly, with so many questions to ask.

I always have a standard answer to them:
'I don't know.'

Queen of Words

The world calls her the Queen of Words.

Most envy her command over words.

She smiles at their compliments and wonders if they change their opinions if they see words failing her every time when she is with him.

For when she has missed him all day long, all she asks him in the night is 'Where have you been?'

When she gets worried if he would fall asleep hungry, all she says is 'Eat in time.'

When he pulls her in his arms, all she says is 'Butterflies!'

When the thoughts of parting scare her, all she says is 'Don't leave please.'

When their eyes meet and cause mini earthquakes in her stomach, all she says is 'I love you!'.

Where are the words when you need them the most?

Poet of the Smiles

I step on the escalator, my eyes searching for him.

There he is.

I smile after spotting him finally, fighting hard the urge to hurry up on the annoyingly slow escalator and fling my arms around him.

When our eyes meet, he smiles, like sun-rays breaking out from clouds on a foggy morning.

The world stops for a moment for me.

It's hard to tell whether his lips smile first or the eyes.
But it's easy to notice even from that distance (and even when his eyes have gone squinty with an ear to ear smile), the sparkle in them.

Oh, I know the look. It reminds me of many things.

Of leaves of Mimosa plant that curl gently on touch to the utter amusement of my childhood self.
Of children's joy when their paper-boats float in rainwater.
Of early morning dew on Prajakta flowers that strew the damp red soil in the yard.

"What?" He asks sheepishly when I step out.

"I could be dead now if smiles could kill."

I can compose a series of poetry on the smile that follows next.