Ode to insomnia

It's not as it used to be:
the world's the same
the same alphabet and familiar words
occasional reasons to smile to myself
many reasons to laugh
in the predetermination
scripted surreptitiously
in mind maps and diurnal routes;
the clouds pattern differently
but it's still all cloud
I wait for rain
like I've waited for sun;
but it's not like it used to be
between us
the gives and takes
of everyday and every night
when we took universe in palm
let slip through fingers
every grain of hurt
and kiss love dust remnant
and softly imprint cheek and forehead
in the soft marking of comforts;
it's not like it used to be
with she so far away
and I lost in orbits
of choice and circumstance;
it's not like it used to be
between us,
but she texts
from a stolen phone,
'good night'
and I just can't sleep.

A long-night short story

Something brushed the surface
of a gin and tonic moment
something sank into liquid sorrow
in the retelling of retold stories
something cut through night
in the imagined stillness of the dark
something waited for expected word
in the thrill of vacancies that fill
something about hours and nights
wrote a story that will not be forgotten.

It was a story of all-this-time
of suffocating love
the mines of ownership
it was a story of a river
and a friend
one still and the other not
it was a story of a waning moon
a first-time observation
of light overpowered by darkness
and the terror of Amavaka.

Duet

First there was the word
and the word became flesh
and the flesh
in its rise
and in its collapse
weakness that is so compelling
turned words into sighs
but even the heaviest sigh
when it dies in a caress
turns flesh into word
and the word
on whispered breath
is love.

කන්‍යාභාවය

ඇඟිලිතුඩු වදන් 
පිරිමදිද්දී 
හිරිගඩු ස්වරයෙනි 
කොඳුරන්නේ:
"පළමු වතාවයි මේ". 

Aloysius

I don't know his name.
Aloysius in the Army,
Driver Ranji at Rivira
Ranji Aiya to younger drivers
Ranji to me.
He has up days and down days
suicidal days filled with mother's filth
many mothers of course
good days of impressions
dirty jokes
and exploits
with men and women
some armed and others disarmed

but Ranji the Brave goes meek
at mention of wife,
Tough Ranji can't take sad stories

and that's when Ranji the Baby is (re)born.

He can be stopped with a few words:

it's a smile-killing, laughter-dissolving query
one that turns clear eyes red
fractures the strident voice
cuts down manliness
forces about turn

උඹ මගේ මිනිය කරගහනවා නේද?
'Will you carry my coffin when I am dead?'
I don't know his name,
really,
a brother of a kind he is,
one,
really.

Virginity

Touched
by fingertip words
i tremble
and whisper
'it's my first time.'

A hermit and a Franciscan

Stories that end
as stories
without end
are Arabian universals,
and right here
in two worlds
that share a nation
Scheherazade is a Franciscan
with a Hermit Sultan
defying life.