1 a.m.

At 1 a.m.
Unlike most men, eyes 
begin a journey within.
Their footstep towards bliss.


Fans modulate their voice
into a creaky annoyance.
1 a.m. when pending projects
perform a strip-tease for the mind.

Married women look into their
husband’s eyes and fantasize SRK
while married men direct their 
eyes elsewhere, a little lower.

1 a.m. when I snuggle into my blanket.
Book in tow. And in the black and white
rigmarole, I try to find shades of you in
characters unknown.

1 a.m. when I start ignoring
the author’s work to create my own.
Start doodling on flavoured pages
to paint my feelings. 

Paint my feelings in words
to create what you read. Now.
And what you read. Earlier.