In two days, it will be July.
Blue, red, orange, yellow
the light, the heat, the color;
Summer holding us around the waist.
Grilled corns, peas frozen,
petals drying on the floor,
limes enshrine my threshold.
Summers, they say, evaporates your grief,
Summers, they say,
unbuckles the purpose from your ankles.
So you are free, like a dead-skin.
Untethered, unaccountable for any growth.
And you dance in the wind
in a moon-lit, sunset sky.
You don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow.
We face each other’s back
hands held, fisted and locked.
The time has come.
You greet your new world,
I continue in the blackness of mine.
The shimmering world attracts you more
The air between our hands start to show.
A pearl like substance appear in
our clammed-hands; our little fingers
still adhering to some terrifying rules.
The stubbornness in the bones of
two threads of flesh knitted together,
against time and reason, baffles me.
These hopeworm little fingers.
Not knowing the time has come to let go.
I’m through, you’re through.
Let our world lie on its back and die.
©️ kanikachugh
Music crawls out of the speakers,
boredom resides in the womb of bass.
The notes, the rhythm has a pull
Icy and numb but so dull.
Like knives un-sharpened for a new prey
to give a slow, painful death.
The scales wait at the doorstep
and see you dying on absent keys.
It’s melancholic music
only enters the ears seeking it,
or the hearts with granite sitting on it.
It doesn’t feel heavy anymore.
Feet chained, or back slouched.
It matches the beat and tempo.
Music activates the part of the brain,
the part they said “You’re too much” for.
©kanikachugh
You let out a heavy sigh,
gulp down icy cold water,
shut your eyes tight, briefly.
No rebuttal, no debate.
Let silence adorn your throat.
There are people who understand your silence,
and there are people who deserve nothing but your silence.
Give them the glory of their ‘win’.
Your victory is walking away
with grace in heart and head held high.
©kanikachugh
Happy World Poetry Day
Calm people always have a different aura. Their energy, their softness, their unburdened presence possesses a soothing touch that one feels lighter and shinier around them. It’s as if they calm your thunderstorm down in a single embrace. It’s not talked about too much or appreciated enough. The tiredness you feel slipping away from your body because you’re surrounded by something so peaceful, you forget something was holding you down. I always say, power of ordinary is extraordinary.
Why do I become tone-deaf
to my own imagination?
And a lighthouse to
guide their wings forward.
I sit back and wonder
what would work for me?
Implosion, explosion, exorcism,
Qi wellness, herbal remedies,
gospels, temples, churches,
dopamine, serotonin,
sunlight or moonlight
It has to be somewhere.
The cure.
The cure for not torturing yourself
for weak memory, for recycled art,
for enhanced magical delusions,
for undiagnosed inflated ego.
It resides in me somewhere,
the dark matter of the universe
that makes me unrecognisable
like a flattened dime.
It is somewhere in me,
a really cool colourful crayon box
that loves to paint my bones,
or the walls of my exiled room.
It is there somewhere,
otherwise I’d have to admit.
I was born to create art.
I was born to torture my soul
until it becomes tone-deaf to art.
©kanikachugh
Will you come back and pick up your belongings lying breathless in your old room? Will you reclaim the home you once fled from? Will you pick up the ghost-leaf that rests on your window sill, a relic of the last autumn that passed without you?
Will you come back and pick up the dreams boxed-up under your bed? Will you pick up your nobody-self, who knew the real you, now that you are someone? Will you return for the last raindrop that stopped falling after you left? Will you pick up your old journal, the one you swore never to read?
Will you face it all, picking up the pieces of your former bronze self, now that you’ve become gold?
The edge of a leaf, tip of a nose, head of a pen, the weight of grief…. bring it closer and closer until it dissolves into haze.
“Ignorance is bliss” they say. Feign it until it fades. Forget that it exists — the fields of agony, the intoxication of limerence, an era of distrust.
The world is too close that it can rust. The world is too distant to marry it. Eyes shatter at the ugly truth of it. The mirror disturbs; the baggage cracks the concentration. So, I am learning to unsee.
Thick ice on a hilltop, fog vanishing in the rain, a starless heaven with squinted eyes. All are like you — distant, distant and distant until it’s a blur.
©️kanikachugh
How can you say non-living things do not have life living inside of them? These things breathe, reminisce, sigh out the essence of a person they were last used by. Every remnant, every corner reeks of their earlier presence and you try to find that person in bits and pieces. The slippers they wore before, the pan they cooked in, the tie they showed off, the books they touched, the lamp they bought for you, all these lifeless objects hold a tiny light of their owners. You could make a whole human out of the parts they left themselves in. It’s too hard to see these objects not breathing in their persona anymore.
Things do not make a room look empty. The absence of someone using them does.
Feet to the ground, a smile in the eyes
I think I dreamt
when I saw you at the doorway.
The soul absorbs memories, settled like dust particles
I surely witnessed those particles
glowing in your light.
I was too much of myself for you in that moment.
My head disconnected from my heart
my heart astounded by my fanning hands
It was you at the doorway.
It was you, or
An expensive, delicate Winter’s Sun
©️kanikachugh