Dare

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And how doesn’t the shimmering light
in the darkness give you strength?

I know that you fear trembling, but isn’t life all about daring to take a step?

– Kritika Vashist

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Waves Which Were Never Heard

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There were so many waves
that ended before they could
reach the shore of my mouth;
and some ebbed away,
that I could never find them again;
and while some quivering waves
survived all my quiet
inhibitions and doubts
and touched the shore,
the sun was too loud
and grains too deaf,
to hear even a word.

– Kritika Vashist

I Wish You Had Bought The Train Ticket

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Sometimes I wish
that you hadn’t had to buy the plane tickets
to go back to the city
that will make you run throughout the day
and will give you some peace only at night
that still might not be enough for you.

I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because that way you would have got more time
to recall each moment that you lived while you were here,
how you disentangled all your worries
without even speaking about them;
how that night you didn’t have to hold a pillow to sleep;
how you didn’t have to put an alarm to go to work;
how each hour you spent seemed to scamper;
and how when we sat under the sky late evening,
you could just brought few pieces of your stories,
(maybe you could have completed those in the train,
and I am sure that with your poetic soul,
you would have inked the pages you haven’t spoken to for long)
I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because while unfolding the letters
I had written to you few hours before you had to leave,
you would have known that
I picked those pieces of your stories,
to save them up for the time
when nobody would be in a hurry
to reach the airport, or anywhere.

I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because when you look through the window
while the trees and clouds pass each second,
you realize that the sun is still there
moving with you;
and while you leave everything behind,
you carry poetry and songs
written only in your head
about how the distance could never make you love someone less,
and a few questions about yourself –
questions whose answers lie in not knowing.

Now that you have boarded the plane
to fly back to the city that awaits you, but never misses you;
soon you will find yourself as
another lonely soul among the crowd;
however, the waves at night
would definitely listen to you;
and while the wet sand
offer some comfort to you,
I wish you find the answer to
how we always try to save time,
but end up having so little,
that it just slips with the thought of having some more,
and then maybe
book the plane tickets to return before winter arrives.

– 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

The Moments We Dared

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You held my face in your warm hands
calmed my dried quivering lips
wrote the first word of an unmapped script
when you forgot we were just good friends

I moved towards you with thoughts of no ends
one silenced evening of an erratic journey
the sky dimmed lights, morning was in no hurry
when I realized we were more than just good friends

We made each other better between the moments
and amid forgetting and remembering
love however knew we were meant

-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

The Calling

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Beneath the bulge of your eyes
lays the yearning for his face
and on it lingers the reflection
of the moon to whom you recount.
At the corner his oceanic eyes
stand the waves, thirsty for you
that soon would flood the shore
because your moon bestrews
the ocean with all your epistles
inducing the waves to rush
until he reaches you,
until you hear his screech.
-Kritika Vashist