Union of our solitude

vintage love

The first time I met her,
I met her eyes instead of her
and the sweating palm
that didn’t go with her charm.
Oh, how she managed to remain calm.
But as I stood among the audience,
each trapped in their worlds
with stories and histories
and hysterics that filled the air
they kept breathing,
I listened to the million voices
raging in my ears, each demanding attention
each pushing me a little to the edge,
petrified, I stood in the crowd, misplaced.
…when you think you can’t take it anymore,
she was reciting,
as if saying what I dared not speak,
but beyond the strength and the zing
I could see in her eyes,
the makings of the same cliff.
This cliff that demands my fall,
enticing me with its heavenly call,
to take me to a place that will be mine,
without a soul to judge, without anything divine.
And I knew I could hold on to her and stayed,
but to succumb, to lose myself clinging to her,
meant both of us that I would have betrayed.
It has been years and many such recitals
till she gave up and started to fade away.
But I remember that first afternoon after the event,
when among the dust motes
the sun-kissed air smelling of spent love,
lying next to her, I didn’t take the offered hand,
thinking it was me who had to take the leap.
And every time the thought fills me with a pang,
a slap on my soul it strikes me with a bang,
if she was instead the one
who was stretching her hand for me to pull her back,
yearning for me,
in her poetic interludes,
maybe she wanted to hold on
and I let her slip away,
so that instead of us, our cliffs stood together,
but finally defeated as they faced
the union of our towering solitudes.

At most he can say that besides the mundane, he loves to read and write or rather ramble.

the silent shadow

Age 32: The Year of an Authentic Me

 

In a complete and serene silence

we’d walk,

and through our scrutinizing eyes

we’d talk.

Maybe we’d walk for miles,

reciprocating each other’s smiles;

caring not to look at the judging eyes,

pretending to be deep in thoughts,

pretending to be wise.

Or maybe,

it’ll be just a stroll in a park,

caring not if there’s still light or if it’s dark.

 

In complete and calming silence we’d sit,

ignoring the eyes calling us misfits.

Maybe we’d sit on the freshly mowed grass,

staring into each other’s soul in a trance.

Or maybe,

it’ll be in a luxurious restaurant seat,

where slowly will our hands crave to meet.

 

In a complete and pious silence we’d live,

where full trust will we swear to give.

Maybe it’ll be near a city,

where the people surrounding us will be witty.

Or maybe,

it’ll be far away in a melancholy house,

where one day we’d be enthusiastic,

and another, we’d lose.

 

And through this silence,

we’d get to know each other’s strengths and fears,

and give contagious laughs, while wiping the dripping tears.

 

Within this silence,

one day,

will echo your screams filled with pain and agony,

while the sharp knife in my hand will twist unhappily.

“For speaking lies here is a crime”,

My shadow will whisper to you all covered in grime.

 

And then will I wake,

feeling as though through my heart is a stake.

“It’s just a dream”

I’ll convince myself, I’m sure,

but the shadow,

the shadow will lurk there and lure.

 

And now,

as you open your mouth and let the meaningless words dart,

I realize,

how much I want to shove the sharp knife straight into your heart.

 

A nightmare it has now become,

and slyly my shadow whispers,

“Darling, they have just begun.”

(By Anjali Sharma.)

 

Anjali Sharma: She’s 20, lives in New Delhi, India. Currently, a history honors student, who’s also a content writer at Withered Weedy Writers.