+ 334 Notes
When did we start kissing
with our mouths half open?
When did we start stepping over one other’s bodies
the morning after? Gathering our things and
slipping out the door like thieves? Like cowards?
When did the clouds grow silent?
When did every one of my pictures become
a before or after shot?
When did our pens start slipping?
When did letters start coming back unopened?
When did the ferris wheel stop with the
better lovers swinging their feet at the top,
the dirt at the bottoms of their shoes
falling into our hair?
When did the ferris wheel stop with us
still in reach of ground, still able to
pry the gate open and escape?
When did this become an apostrophe?
When did we become nothing
but a pause for breath?
When did our bodies grow pale, grow white,
and wave their own flags?
When did we start clawing at each other’s necks
and calling it love? Calling it close?
When did our stomachs cave in
and our legs give out?
When did someone else’s shoulder
start smelling of home?
When did someone else’s hands
start smelling of everything else?
When did every approaching footstep
stop sounding like yours?
When did the question mark of your hips
stop being the answer?
When did you stop being
the answer?
21 Questions Ramna Safeer
Aug 20 @ 1:21 AM
writings   poetry  
+ 32 Notes

today was a good day. I saw one of my closest friends and wandered downtown. we talked and talked and it was lovely getting truly lost in a conversation for the first time in too long. I hope your day was lovely too. 

Aug 20 @ 12:37 AM
+ 49173 Notes
617,835 plays
Aug 20 @ 12:09 AM
+ 21430 Notes

A submerged statue of the Hindu Lord Shiva amid the flood waters of the river Ganges, June 17, 2013.

Aug 18 @ 2:51 AM
+ 69 Notes

The smell of dirt and rubble changes
depending on what was destroyed in the fire.
If the village burns down, it is the smell of flesh.
Of overcooked dinners and charred cotton
and children’s shoes.

If we are the fire, though,
the aftermath smells of hair just washed,
of perfumed skin and tire rubber
and notes taped to the fridge.

I am convinced we are both afraid
of the same thing.
I am convinced that loving you
was every lesson I needed in pretending,
every lesson in brushing shoulders
and hiding the lightning.

When you ask if I miss you,
I’ll wonder if you will ever grow out of
asking only the questions
you know the answers to.
I’ll convince myself I can’t smell
the way your jacket hasn’t been washed
since the last time you asked me
if I liked the way your fingers felt.
I’ll convince myself you don’t smell
like arson.

When you ask again, I’ll lie.
I’ll say I do. I’ll say I do miss you
and shrug my shoulders
and call it acting.

You taught me that.
You taught me that.

Acting | Ramna Safeer
Aug 17 @ 5:18 PM
writings   poetry  
+ 31416 Notes

the sunset was fascinating today

Aug 17 @ 6:36 AM
+ 65 Notes

My grandmother pulls her sari around her
like a growing puddle, gathers the fabric in her fists
and bites down on her lip.

Decades ago, my grandmother was a loose canon,
shot from across the river into a village
of sandal wearing brown boys.

There, the boys had strong knees
from falling so much.
There was an aftertaste of metal
after every one of their meals,
from all the blood they had swallowed.

My grandmother used to look their way once
and swear by the sky that they were in love.
She would smile once with teeth, swing her braid,
and watch their bikes crash.

But my grandmother, she has never been
smaller than this. She takes my hand like a last promise,
like a closing curtain, and puts it on her hair.
I comb it into a river of milk and old.

She balls the fabric until the wrinkles stay.
She doesn’t smile, my grandmother.
We are all still in love with her.
Here, in this room with its smell of going away
and the drip of the IV,
we are weak kneed schoolboys who turn
to see her one more time and
hope to God she comes
this way again.

Fabric | Ramna Safeer
Aug 17 @ 1:26 AM
writings   poetry  
+ 2977 Notes


Serenity in the skies, and a rush of the ocean that wants to reach the warmth of the houses on the cliffs of Laguna beach.

Aug 16 @ 5:39 PM
+ 49 Notes

i think i quite enjoy that sense of anticipation and quiet before something big is about to happen. in a couple of weeks, i’m going to be sleeping in a strange city, in a strange bed, not knowing anyone. and as much as that makes my breath tremble and my hands wring themselves, i’m savoring my tea a little bit more in the mornings, hugging my mother a little bit tighter. it’s the before-ness that tastes new and sweet and a little bitter but always welcoming. i’ve always loved the way people are softer in the before of a big moment, how their eyes linger a little longer, their questions are a little kinder. 

i’ve always been in love with the prospect of change and i’ve loved that i need the taste of newness in my life in some way, always. i hate boredom more than anything. and yet, adjusting has never been something i’m good at. i become airy and it takes longer for me to form sentences in a new situation. these couple of weeks leading up to moving out have been that. like a chord plucked that hasn’t stopped vibrating yet. it’s sweet and different and though it’s hard knowing that i may soon be feeling quite displaced and lonely, i’ve taken to smiling and not quite knowing why and i like that. i do.

Aug 16 @ 4:27 PM
+ 10363 Notes


There’s an island in Japan, Miyajima, where deer roam free by the hundreds. This one was silently walking around with this kid for a few hours

Aug 16 @ 11:07 AM