When You’ll Know

Artwork by Edward Munch

That late evening in the silence of slithering hues,
your goodbye echoed loud enough that the
gloomy clouds pulled their tears back.
I tried to control my quivering lips,
and the words inside convulsed one by one.
I wish I could tell you that the pain of separation
doesn’t disappear like a smoke in the air.
That it is like the air you push into your lungs
and the next second you puff some out.
I knew that you would understand only when
you’ll find yourself picking the pieces of me in your bedroom,
removing them from everything that I ever touched,
and then you would realize that it is hard to peel off
my imprints on you and to pull off the pieces of me in you;
when you’ll be watching some movie or reading a book
and thought of me would cloud the sight and
then you would try to shake them off your head;
when the air would rush into your ear and whisper my name
and you would cover your ears or act deaf;
for whirling in eddies of my thoughts wasn’t what you wanted;
when you’ll pour yourself a drink and with watery eyes
you’ll laugh remembering our weird stories that we once made,
and then you would wipe away your tears telling yourself that
reaching the shore of my memories wasn’t the reason for your drinking;
And finally when you’ll come home late at night
to lie down on the bed and to comfort yourself,
you’ll feel distress, your body will ache and you’ll feel the chill
in the air as the window would allow the eerie feeling to enter,
and you would fear that your dreams would turn into nightmares;
for you would realize that under your bed is my grave,
the one that do not hold my bones, and yet they hold everything of me,
in all those letters that I wrote to you, in all the painting and poetries,
all that you buried under the mattress, and all that dance every night,
everything of me and us that you couldn’t throw away or burn down
because somewhere between sorrow and felicity you still loved me.

-Kritika Vashist




Weary of the tears my eyes and pen created to paint you and your memories
I replaced the pen with a cigarette, holding it between my fingers
To suck in the truth that you no longer care
To blow out the smoke along with thoughts of you
To flick off the ashes of love we once lived
But every time I puffed, the cloud of the smoke created your face.

-Kritika Vashist

Disclaimer: Smoking cigarette in poems is not injurious to health; however, the heart may ache for a while. 

(Image source: http://favim.com/image/681400/)

Ten Years Down the Road


Ten years down the road, while finding your old favorite books, your hand will accidentally land on the piles of letters I had written to you, worn down by the time, hidden away from you and the world, continuing with their shallow breathing under the mountain of newly written pages. You’ll choose one letter randomly from the stack, while your body shuddering with realization that you cease to remember us and the memories of me etched into the letters. You will begin to read few lines, and you’ll fathom out the reasons of those scribbled words. As you will continue to read, you will realize that the events that had happened were stupid and that I was immature, but nonetheless, I did love you. The words that you’ll read won’t make any sense, but you will pick up the threads and your eyes will shed a tear of remembrance making the sight all blurry.
The love will travel slowly in your body and bones, and you will miss me more than you ever did.

Ten years down the same road, while rummaging through my closet, the well organized piles of clothes will fall down making a view for my eyes to see the jute pursue hidden beneath the multiple layers of clothes. My hands would reach the purse with frayed edges, however, still protecting my most precious belonging.  The silence around will let me hear my heartbeats remembering you. Taking out that black and white photograph of yours, the one you gave me when the situation was in our favor. My heart will skip a beat and the eyes will roll down the tear settled at the corner, when they will look fixedly at the photograph of you. I’ll look vividly at the long neck, that big nose, those deep and dark eyes, some stubble and will wonder how you are. Kissing the photograph I’ll leave imprints of my lips and moisture of my tears that will continue to roll down, till someone will knock on the door of my room asking me to hurry up.
The same love will rush through my veins and skin, and I will miss you terribly than I ever did.

Eventually we both will realize that the road had bumps and that we had fallen. We tried to help each other, to hold hands, but we had fallen quite far, and your hand couldn’t hold mine and my hand couldn’t reach yours. The only way to bestir ourselves was to stand up all alone and to complete the rest of the journey without holding each other’s hand.
Our hearts keeping alive the love and our souls still coupled.

-Kritika Vashist

(PS. That piece of art is a painting by me, reflecting Radha and Krishna, the eternal lovers as per Hindu mythology.)