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how ar eyou?

if you ask me today:
HOW ARE YOU?
and ask me again in 3.5 hours
and then again in two weeks

and a month again, over
text messaging.

How are you? :)

I might have to keep telling you:
like shit.

just as many times.

But that a question was raised.

A QUESTION WAS RAISED about how i was.

is enough to trigger uncertainty
that i feel like shit.
Heisenbergs microscope
trying to measure something

despite knowing that
the answer is:
SAD.

BUT AS LONG AS WE CAN ASK,

WE WILL NEVER BE SURE THAT
IT ALWAYS IS.

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currency of happiness

i am obliged to trade
in the currency of happiness
that
i don't have any money in
but the world does.

oh yes they have banks of it.
notebooks filled with sweet, sweet memories
desires propped up
on plinths and pillars of
stable, unabandoned memories,
expectation, and retrieval of
happiness.

on most days
i can't so much as buy tea
with happiness;
i don't keep a wallet.

if i earn, i spend all of it in
few short, unnecessary days.
and become poor again
until someone shakes me and puts
a crisp 500 happiness note
sneakily in my shirt pocket.

i cry when i see it
why did they give /me/ this?
and then spend it all at once
on being verbose
and dramatic
and let thoughts fly
no care
for the guilt of tomorrow
belongs not to today
but it comes.

and when it comes,
i have nothing again
i'm under a steam roller.

i wish the world traded with me
in real money.
and not this talk about loving oneself,
not this confusing delirious banter
do not talk to me
about having desire and choice.
t…

ajji

it will soon be ten years
of absence
ten vacuous years
ten years of monstrous progressions
and no cadence

ten empty years
of slowly forgetting
and recreating, and getting wrong -
your vocal gestures

ten sordid years
of having a hole in my heart
shaped as you

ten lonely years
of not talking to you,
ten years of having not seen
your knobbly fingers
your hesitation
your cotton sarees
your writing on the board
your raspy voice

ten years of not having played with
your skin that stayed when pinched
your word-games nobody could win
your not visiting me
your not calling
your not writing letters
your not listening

ten ghostly years
of meandering, ten years of
loss of home

it will soon be ten years
of being misguided
and walking in the dark

and getting astonished at surviving
with your loss.

april is your month
your day of birth
your day of death
your day of introducing to me,
summer.