Author: Kanika

• 

I cackled at 6:40 am on a Friday morning recalling your months’ old joke. When we laughed at everything on all the grounds we set our foot in. You took me to the younger days and non-disastrous moments in your faithful two-wheeler, twirling like in a Ferris wheel.

It was so hard to piece it all together, so difficult to admit. The breeze was chilly and my heart had taken a winter coat. It could see no one. Then your ‘Hi’ entered. The days I didn’t confess to myself were like disappointments sitting in a coffee cup trying to interpret your language with every sip I took. Till the cup was empty, and my heart wasn’t.
It’s unpopular how eyes can measure up some logical distance between two people. I remember the time when the corner of my eye campaigned and captured how much of remoteness I have to consider to avoid you. But as always, the calculations failed. I couldn’t shun you off anymore.

You are so close now that I don’t see you in my dreams anymore. You are here, right now. While I paint the house, while I walk in snowy hills, in tangled wires of my room, in ceruleans skies, in nightmares, in storms, in gardens, in last months of the year. I am not afraid anymore. I am fascinated. A kiss in my veins.
For everyone else, you are an exotic strawberry. For me, you taste like mangoes. The king of our land. And you weigh heavy on me. In a good, different way. Like your eyes on me or your tongue on my navel. My appetite is a royal highness now. Always in need to be served. I have come out of my greenhouse. My heart is untamable now and it wants to run wild. With you.

So darling, take me away. Again!
My heart’s getting cold.

Take me away where the breeze doesn’t kill me.

©kanikachugh

• 

Would I still be biased
If October wasn’t my month?
I don’t know but I tend
to open up at fall.
October is like a
long Friday evening,
a free therapist,
manifestation of a
dreamy fictional character.
It’s uncruel, satin;
the winter’s sun.

©kanikachugh

• 

There is a flesh of beginnings hanging by my window frame. It stinks and I do not throw it away. It could be the past. Every muse of mine loves to reside in past and I am the water.
Water carries memories. Memories make muse come alive,
and the muse tells me how much they live in me. More than me.

I used to stay awake all night, ripping my heart out, stitching their broken part, decaying in apocalyptic poems, writing healing words about them. Every time I rekindled their soul with magnificent words, I burnt a part of me like innocent witches. Every time I wrote about them I crossed a threshold that eyed me the next time I entered, for not being the same person anymore.
They say this is the beginning but the past never leaves. It lives in present, in ashtrays and in last goodbyes. And it lives on my tongue, on my skin, on my fingertips. How to ever taste something else?

I am telling you, I am my checkmate. No one ended me like I did and they say it’s a beginning. It’s an Irish temptation with a warm whiskey and iridescent culture but the cold is bound to come back.
The foul smell from my windows will enter my room and I will know these beginnings reek of the same past I threw away like cigarette butts. I’ll know how many words hungrily march towards a new muse but me. But I am tired. I am so fucking tired of making everyone else my muse. It’s gonna be me. Just me. The evil, starving, lack of love, Me!

I wanna see how many romantic gestures I adorn myself with or with grotesque description concealed in beautiful ceilings; where I face myself legitimately. It is just about gaining the momentum in destroying anything using words.
This Monday, I’d see how much of a wicked sense I can make about writing myself.

©kanikachugh

Go home.
Love’s been heavy.
Glory is loaded
with lead and loneliness.
Go find your dinner table.
Use the salt shaker
by the candlelight.
Don’t fret about being a hero.
Be a Sunday in your place.

Find a broken mixer to fix it.
You’re already a 10.
Life ain’t easy.
So, go easy on yourself.
Visit your fireplace.
Burn your disasters.
Be unburdened.
At times, lazy.
It’s allowed.
And sleep with the
Sun in your mind.
Throw away your phone.
Place your nightmares
behind the curtains.
Let it drop anguish like
droplets from a wet umbrella.
Close your eyes
and be home.

Your breaths are
someone’s prayers answered.
So, go. Run home .
You’re always needed
without any condition,
without any reason.

Go back.
May you find
those melting arms.

©kanikachugh

I am here, baby
I’m here.
I’m gonna stay
despite the dust,
more than the August.
I’m here to
celebrate your happy times
Or when you slow down.
I’m here to laugh with you
in a smaller town
or at Disneyland.
I’m here for you, baby
And I’ll stay
like October dramatic boredom.