I see my crush in my dreams.
She breathes the minds of people around.
Doesn’t look alive
But carry her headstones wherever she goes.
The light is bright,
the trees are blue,
makes the grass eerily silent with her feet.
I wonder what do I like about her.
The deadness?
the windowless eyes?
Words like dark crime from her mouth?
She kills me each night in my dream
and I get resurrected every morning.
There is so much emptiness between us, so
I try to fill up with gazes and despaired tenderness.
We are like loose threads of a garment,
soon to be ripped off
Nothing to hold onto.
not even each other.
Nothing between us
yet I sleep so I could fill her emptiness with mine.
©️kanikachugh

P.S –Lesson no. 46385837 on
Why to not go for emotionally unavailable people.

August seasoned my summer with more raindrops.
I feel less incomplete,
someone with more soul.
The longing doesn’t end though
but the deep pits appear shallow.
As if August could lend a hand
and pick me up from deep valleys.
It’s not that I don’t miss July
But August, It’s preparing me
for less shame and more colors.
‘Cause soon it will be time for Fall.

©️kanikachugh

Today, I saw a kid scrawling graffiti
Well, today I caught a kid expressing
mercilessly on the walls.
What to say—
How does it feel to witness an artist in his/
her artistry form?
I always relished the idea of art in its
process instead of a polished result;
a duckling instead of a swan,
a messy color palette over gracefully-sketched canvas
a mere, timid sapling to a magnificent tree.
Any art in its raw form tells how everything starts weak, disoriented and vague.

We are a part of someone’s process as well;
Perhaps our own.
Somewhat damaged, somewhat
overpainted with layers and layers of
stories, corrections hidden beneath.
The journey of self-breaking and self-making
tainted with love and lessons
trying to reach an end goal with self-discipline
Who’s to say what to become of us…
but being the masters of our brushes
we are as unique as any fine craft
and the burnt marks on the soul
allows us a chance to make our own graffiti.

©kanikachugh

I hear Schubert’s Frühlingsglauben
and read Uhland’s poetry about
echoing their faith in Spring,
about using leftover optimism and colourfulness of Autumn,
about making the deepest valleys of heart bloom.
And I hear this as melancholia; why?
‘cause Schubert was dying when he wrote this?
‘cause he knew Spring would wander
in and out of major and minor
seemingly, meeting its end one day?
I hear it; with parched lips not cause of the
Summer’s tapestry of fire but
‘cause your lips left mine for another season,
for a better, rainless sky.

‘Have faith in spring’, they said.
It’s a wasted breath when I couldn’t convince them you were my spring.
And I used to crawl back to your heartbeat to bloom.
Oh, my poor heart, learn to live with this fear
of seasons ending
of impending danger
How could two seasons ever be together?
at the same time ?
The Cold has to die to meet the Bloom.
Wish I knew before,

Because darling, you were Spring.
And I was a cold cold winter night.

©kanikachugh

Note : On my journey of learning German I stumble upon different words and phrases everyday. I was listening to a composition by an extremely prolific composer Franz Schubert – Frühlingsglaube
which translates to Spring Faith or faith in Spring that eventually made me read Johann Ludwig Uhland’s poetry for the same composition and I was moved by the meaning of the words. Couldn’t help but write about it too in scorching summer