A poem about a girl and a piano.
A dedication to my father who buried his dreams to make mine come true.
Tell me where I can call home.
The Bindi, an optional mark of Indian feminity
She took the cigarette. Held it between her fingers and placed it carefully between her lips. And lit it up.
What if the going gets tough and love gets exhausted? What then? What if time has wiped all the chills he used to give you and all that is left is him with a ring in a room full of memories, pleading you to chose the right word?
Car rides give me stories. Car rides give me insights, tiny little ones into the life of others. I saw a girl fighting with her father. A boy driving alone, stereos blasting, smiling. I saw a woman look at her baby, not yet born, with love already radiating from the mother inside her. I saw… Continue reading CAR RIDES