When did it start? When did I start waiting for Tuesdays? It feels like I’ve always loved that day, but no. Tuesday was just another day to cry, to laugh, and to live until the day I met you. You made Tuesday sound so perfect like it is our day- I mean, you don’t actually know, right? You may not know it but the thing is, all our tiny moments are collected on Tuesdays! And so I wait for it every week. I wait and I wait and I get tired of having nothing on Tuesdays and then you’d do something on a Tuesday again, and I’ll forgot how my steps are going farther. It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? You made it clear that the question should be “When will your Tuesdays end?” And so I wait. I wait for the Tuesdays to end. (It just won’t)


To paint

You create masterpieces,

Shaped my world only with your stare.


If I give you a canvas, what would you paint?

I knew you’d pick a few colors 

With shades I’ll never know

Would it be the vibrant ones? 

Or those that make everything dull?

Maybe you’d get a brush or a few

Then a water-well and a towel

And this blank canvas will soon tell a story

From brush and techniques I’ll never know


You almost did it. You had it done;

Had handpicked the colors,

Had canvas in front of you,

Had water-well to change tones,

Had a towel in case something drips, and

Had the brush in your hands!


You know, I could have been your artwork

But the paint did not touch the brush

And the canvas never felt any brush

Sudden thought

Here comes the time of the day

Where this one thought will pop

Keeping the whole train wondering

If this thought’s from thinking of you

Or if this thought leads to you.

I would fight myself for this alone

Without having to wait, 

But force a way for the answer

And the answer has always been none of the two

Just the usual maybe you are my every thought


“What’s the thought?” You may ask

And I’ll give you a smile for an answer

You’ll raise your eyebrow, pleading

I, of course, will notice and I know

I’ll have to brush it off, to step back, to stop

“He isn’t interested” I’ll say to myself

 And that’s the thought that never goes away.

Cup of coffee

How do you like your coffee? Bitter or sweet? 

Pardon me for not knowing a small detail

Pardon me for trying to know

The kind of cup you sip in the morning

And in the night, to keep yourself awake

Pardon me for believing I’d know your coffee

When you prefer a cup of tea.