Poetry

When it’s your birthday and Diwali in a foreign land and you try to make the most of it

It’s a pity not being able to find art in simple things.

©kanikachugh

• 

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.

Oversharing kills me but I met some cute weirdos who doesn’t make me feel bad about it.

My anxiousness has an expiry date. Until it returns with a new, refined one.

I’d be shrinking down and curling up in my bed all day log and yet be keeping hope near the pillow to win in life.

Nothing beats the sleep with a book hugging your chest. (Ofcourse after Ma’s lap)

Hobbies help you escape/overcome heartache.

Hurt can feel very personal sometimes. Big or small, doesn’t matter.

The softness of my voice can make someone’s day instead of screaming my pain out without realising what they are going through.

Capture/watch as much of Sunrises and Sunsets as possible. They cure you.

Family, friends, Bangtan truly have helped me get over toughest of times. I would work really hard to give it back to all of them.

©kanikachugh

Did you see my immature impulsion?
Did you see me swiftly jumping into
conversations to save you behind your back?
Did you notice my urge to drape a
Saree instead of a short skirt
because you folded that page in a magazine?
Did you see me stopping mid-meal
when your tongue folded my name nicely?
Did you see me tremble under a single umbrella
and your gaze drizzling on my body?
Did you see me smiling at a stranger
because their hand movements matched yours?
If you did then tell me,
why am I cold in summer?
Why do I fall in spring?
Why does it rain heavily at night?

I did it all. Must you be so cruel in spite of all?
Did you see me getting adjusted in the
back of your car now, just to be with you?
Did you see my nails painted white, a cry for help?
Did you see me layering shimmer
when the glow was gone?
Did you see me walking confidently
towards you when my ground was shaking?

Did you see me how immaturely and
insanely I was in love with you?
I am growing up. Be more mature now.
And I’ll love in sanity and moderation.
That’s the worst kind of love for me.

©kanikachugh

Reading your favourite quote or poetry to them.

Feeding a morsel to them.

Sing in your voice to cheer them up.

Making trinkets/souvenir from the scratch.

A personal message on their birthdays.

Walking them to the door at the end of evening.

Leaving little notes around.

Suprising them with a hand-made dish.

Knowing how to keep a promise.