A little more and a little less.

What are we?

I don’t see,

Where and what have we now become;

Yes I spoke,

Yes you listened,


But then?

Now what?

I know I wanted this,

To be at least,

To be there in silence,

Let the doors be open,

Everything just the same,

At least, at last;

But now, really

Are we same?

Just the same,

For I feel a little robbed,

Of what we were:

Now conscious, evermore,

Now thoughtlessly thoughtful,

A little more;

A little more, pretentious,

A little less awkward?

Real or unreal,

A little more wait,

Unsure and sure a little more,

A little more and a little less,




Unknown, after not knowing.


On the front

We all know everything. Or we all have access to know anything we want to. Internet.

Or maybe not. Even if you tell me your experiences, I may not really understand. Not that there is some language issue, or I am allien to your ideas. But sometimes we have just not gone through things ourselves.

My mind can understand, argue, debate, learn, realise, but how can it feel what you feel? What about the parts that your words can’t express? What about the things that your eyes express but I can’t feel, for I don’t know how many years, how many thoughts run behind those eyes.

When we say, we understand, do we really understand? When we say, we feel you, do we?

We are not in that state; we can never be. We can not even be in something equivalent to that.

What am I talking? Families of army men. We have heard and read about it. We know someone who has someone on the front. But do we understand them. Do we feel them. Can we understand their normality?

Can we, ever?

How do I love you?

How do I love you?

Shall I count some ways?

Or shall I love,

And just love,

Without the thought of you.

I know not if love means,

Meant the same to you,

For I may love in silence,

And I may love in crowd.

But wonder now do I,

If love be the ways,

The ways I felt for you.

Note: the first two lines are borrowed from Elizabeth Barret Browning’s poem How do I love thee?