I have studied the
architecture of your
defeated composure;
your shoulders fallen,
your brisk walk reduced
to the slow of a crawl
and the sullenness of
a night sky painted on
your face, where a microcosm
of the universe once shone
out of your eyes and pulled
me into you with it’s own gravity.

I will settle into the
hollows of your collarbones,
lean against your ribcage,
and embrace your spine
until your lungs fill with love,
and I am nothing more
than just residual air.

Nav K, the anatomy of sadness

(Source: navk)


If you aren’t grateful
for anything else, be grateful
for the fact that you weren’t
born as a hibiscus flower;
how much you would
appreciate your life then
if your bloom only
lasted twenty-four hours
Nav K, hibiscus 

(Source: navk)


You speak to me
in an unspoken vernacular,
a deafening silence
thundering through my veins
like toxins; an explicit passion
which is, not so strangely,
more uplifting than braille,
and far beyond the capacities
of mediocre comprehension.

You speak to me
in a thousand different
tongues, all at once;
none of which are
known to man,
and all of which
are entirely our own.

It is no wonder why
they don’t understand.

Nav K

(Source: navk)


i.
tracing
the scars
from your
childhood

ii.
cleansing
wounds
that refuse
to fade

iii.
tasting the
hollows of
your collar
bones in
the still of
the night

iv.
finger painting
the shades
of our love
on the canvas
of your skin

v.
completing
sentences,
no action
incomplete

vi.
smiling into
the face
of oblivion,
together

vii.
consoling your
trembling lips
with the certainty
of my own

viii.
following
your light

ix.
listening
to your
laughter
like a
symphony
composed
only for me

x.
dreaming of
a tomorrow
together

Nav K, preferred verbs

(Source: navk)


Nav K, you are everywhere like the ink on my hands 

Nav K, you are everywhere like the ink on my hands 

(Source: navk, via foreveriscomposedofnows8)



Do not look for me,
you are not supposed to.
Do not look for me when
the seasons change,
when the leaves shed their colour,
or even when they return;
do not look towards things that come and go,
because I will not be one amongst them.
Do not look for me in the mornings,
nor in the evenings,
nor any moment in between.
Not in the sun,
nor in the shade,
nor by bodies of water
in which you sometimes wonder
if I may have drowned.
In fact, I may have.
Do not look for me
in distant, foreign cities
among an ocean of unknown faces,
I would have blended right in.
Yes, I have certainly drowned, someplace.
None of the cars that stand still
just for a moment
at the traffic signals
on your way to work
will be driven by me.
You will not look up at the person
you bumped into clumsily
and find me smiling back.
Your mornings will start quietly,
but it will not be unusual.
And I will not be seated
alone on a stool
at your favourite coffee shop,
struggling to adjust
the perfect amount of sugar.
Do not look for me
in bookstores in the city
across the corner shelf
lined with Brecht and Beaumarchais,
neither the section which
never seemed to have any E.E. Cummings.
Do not look for me
behind your planters,
or in the midst of your closet,
or by your tall vase
of dried roses, the ones
you always insisted on keeping.
Do not look past the gates
towards the street while sitting
on your grandmother’s verandah
as drops of monsoon rain
litter the paved driveway.
I will not be in any of these places,
please, do not look for me.
Nav K (via navk)

(via navk)


Religious worship
Religious war ship
Religious war
Really just
war
Nav K

(Source: navk)


"My Favourite Poem" from Decaf by Nav K

"My Favourite Poem" from Decaf by Nav K

(Source: some-thing-to-say, via navk)


We are the survivors
of an imagined nation,
a notion kept alive through
paan-stained, gap-toothed sermons,
and function after function
full of dysfunction.
We are the seeds of tragedy,
contaminants airborne
and distraught with diseased will,
so that you may guilt us
into becoming geniuses,
or we otherwise suffer
the scorching glare of
domestic dictators,
to whose reign we are
biologically bound.
Outdoors, the flaming pit
of society’s scorn is
comforting on a good day,
knowing that the hellfire for
deviation from tradition awaits.
Airports are the only customs
we can’t escape.
Nav K || Inheritance II: Children (via navk)


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