Skip to main content


She would not love me
Like I loved her.
There is a difference being a river
And a lake.
I would flow into her with a rush
Often, breaching banks

And she would wait for me
Behind the stark tapestry
Of brown buildings
And soot infested skylines
Behind the charade of city living
And the grey hush
From carpeted office floors
Behind the ever grinning insta posts 
And the harangue of the tweets
Like a lake
She would wait for me
To fill her emptiness
In odd seasons
Of random loneliness.

maestitia stands for, among other things,  heartsore in latin.
Image courtsey pinterest


Popular posts from this blog

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.


You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know when you call Just because you needed to cry.