Away From Home

 

Sitting miles away from your home
while it rains outside
you trace down the raindrops
slipping slowly with the time
as you begin to trace back
the roads leading to your home…

The music of the rain rhythms
with the words in her voice
playing inside your head
The petrichor takes you back
to trees, the blue sky and makes
you miss the fragrance of your home
The breeze passing through you
softly strokes memories, once again
And then in your loneliness
you wish if the warmth of that hug
was there to embrace you…

A few days back was my blog’s 3rd anniversary. I wish WP had informed me in time, nonetheless here is the poem.
Happy blog anniversary to me! 🙂
Thank you all for sticking around, reading and encouraging me.

Love and Hugs!
Kritika Vashist

When Forever Was Too Long To Live

 

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When the world talked about
being in love forever
you told me that forever,
forever is too long to say

The waves were gushing
and our steps leaving
imprints of the silence
on the sand that stretched
not far than the sea

And my heart couldn’t stop
pounding at the feeling of
your hands clutched into mine
our steps rhyming
making a memory
which was enough to live,
forever.

– Kritika Vashist

Ambit Of Love

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He waits for her at the ambit of love.

She enters in anticipation.

He latches the door.

She opens herself up.

He kisses hopes.

She keeps aside the uncertainties.

He clutches his fingers into hers.

She slips into him effortlessly.

He brushes his teeth habitually like every night.

She drinks a glass of water before sleep.

He snores lightly deep in his slumber.

She opens her mouth while sleeping.

He makes exotic coffee.

She prefers hot tea.

He roves around house bare-chested singing.

She throws her wet towel on the bed.

He walks with her along the shoreline.

She sits beside him on the moist beach sand.

He dances with another woman in the bar.

She gulps down another glass squeezing her eyes.

He struggles to explain.

She lets the silence speak.

He turns on the fairy lights entangled in wine bottles.

She listens to their silhouettes’ muted conversation.

He writes about her without writing at all.

She starts her poems with him.

He moves with a gradual momentum.

She runs carelessly.

He doesn’t take the trouble to catch up.

She waits hopelessly for him beyond the ambit of love.

-Kritika Vashist

Late Night Thoughts- Slowly and Slowly

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Painting by Jarek Puczel

The days are still long and the nights still are immeasurable, but memories of you, the thought of you, your brown eyes, your big nose, your hands, all now lies on the horizon. There is no fear if they cross, or if they stay there. Slowly and slowly, the line would fade.

The ocean is dark and deep as it always was, but I have learned to swim. I no longer fear of getting drowned in you, by you. The tides roar high and search for me, but my feet have befriended sand, clasping it tight. I no longer fear of getting devoured by the eerie sound of the tides. The screams from the torrent of your ruthless love do not shut, but the calmness of letting you go is not perturbed. I no longer fear getting swallowed. Slowly and slowly, the ocean would dry.

Your sun has set, and the summer of love has faded away into the cold mist. The moonlight has disowned your shadow, and the stars don’t look for you, yet somehow your face is reflected when they twinkle. Slowly and slowly, the cold mist would cloud the stars.

The day you named my prayer a curse for you, I puked out all the love for you over the memories we shared. However, I doubt myself if I puked it all, while I write this, thinking about you. But I know that, I will spill them out, slowly and slowly, poem by poem, word by word, smoothly emptying my body, and making space for another love, the one I always deserved, the one worthy to have and worthy to keep.

-Kritika Vashist

Nothing

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Illustration by Soltreis

The fog outside has veiled
the summer of love
of you and me
and the sunshine still
peeps through the spaces
between the branches and trees
and falls on my face you once knew
on my hands that waved goodbye
and I know, it isn’t because of you
it isn’t because the sun still shines,
it’s the unconsciousness
weaving poems, word after a word
poems that are soporific, not lullabies
poems, without a meaning
without a purpose,
and they don’t matter,
not even the sieved sunshine,
nothing does…

-Kritika Vashist

That’s All I Am

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I wear your shadow
The vulnerable imprints of you
On my unvulnerable body
Outlining the skin
Burned by your love

Should I trace or break them down?

Our stories
Our sorrows
Engulfed in my
Hallowed bones

Should I save them or let them drown?

The paralyzed heart
Permute the remains of love
Into words, bit by bit
Threading a veil of
Poetries of you, for you

Should I embrace or destroy them?

But there’s no way
To breakthrough you
When my poetry finds only you
Within and beyond my horizon

But there’s no way
When that’s the all I have, all I know
All I survive with, all I survive for
When that’s all I am.

Kritika Vashist

The Melancholic Song

Painting by Januz Miralles
Painting by Januz Miralles

I struggled throughout the nights,
Pulled out all the stops during the days,
Fatigued eyes did not stop painting.
The echoes did not cease for a moment,
In the deafness of bleeding ears .
The head exploded with each verse.
The heart paused for longer than usual
and heavier than heretofore, after your name.
I crawled inside the creased sheets,
With the song still playing inside me.
The silhouette darkened more in chorus,
The beaming sun, all clouds wailed in chorus.
When later the moon howled
In silence and in pervasive pain,
The words of the song echoed louder
Inside the empty bones,
While the beats slip into the skin,
In spite of many denials.

Looking at the blank canvas of our love
In a room reflecting the faded memories
I wondered in desolation,
How you continue to be the song?

I broke down more and more,
Convincing myself that
I have finally jumped off the cliff, and
I don’t wish to love you anymore.

-Kritika Vashist

For a Friend

It is difficult to tell
of when and how
the fragrance of
flowers of our friendship
started to linger around
you and me, but
I am certain that
the garden of your love
has already dwelled
into my heart.

Not many words
were spoken
the last time I met you,
yet I remember how
every word was heard.

Again today if I drop
this pen and let these
words to wander
I know that you will
pick them up
where I left,
with your love.

Kritika Vashist

Unsent Epistles To Him

Painting by JarekPuczel

That summer evening under the street light
after we had talked about the music the café played,
the kind of books the bookstore had,
and how your lips dried,
and how my eyes twinkled
every time I lied about
not wanting to kiss you,
and you knowing the truth;
I told you how beautiful the evening was,
and after the settling sun has encountered
a gaze more brighter and intense than itself,
we went towards the station to catch our trains.
I held your hand, asking you to stay for a while,
and then wishing if we could stay there,
till the moon was up,
till I have tasted your favorite drink from your mouth,
till my neck has clasped you, and
till our light skins have been shadowed
by the softness of the moonlight;
but I could not have stayed for long, and you had to leave.
I did not tell you then, and you will never know
how the curve of your smile that evening had shaped my love,
and that my eyes had captured it,
and I still open that image through my mind into my heart, secretly.
We reached the platform and you went ahead for the hug
even after knowing that I give awkward hugs,
because you thought I get nervous around crowds;
however, like many other things that I slipped under
my smile, and hid while I tucked my hair behind my ear,
and few that I managed to drop in the ice tea and on the plate,
wishing you to catch them while I talked about the
lights outside the window looking at the roof lights of the café,
I managed to veil this behind my self-consciousness,
and to not let you know that it was the feeling of getting screwed
by the love that was filling the space between you and me.
The brakes hissed and screeched as the train slowed down;
it was time to board the train, and let my heart travel
in the never ending anticipation of your return.

Kritika Vashist