Clavicles

Nano poems on ‘Clavicles‘

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“Let my words rain on your clavicles
I’ll taste the purest from there
leaving peerless imprints of my ink
like a rainbow in the sky.”

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“I don’t quite remember
any poetry that I wrote
except the one
I had written on her clavicles. ”

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“I wasn’t an accomplished painter
until my hands had discovered
and my colors had painted
on quintessential curves of her clavicles.”

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“Sunlight falling on her clavicles
the mountain like curves
the warmth of her skin
the color of her skin unifying with the sunshine
I swear, I would not have regret
drowning myself in her
heavenly glorious volcano.”

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“Tell me something you had always wished?”
She asked while the lights shimmered like a shy.
“If I could be that mole on your clavicles
I’d have stayed with you, gone with you.”

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– Kritika Vashist

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In the Wildness of the Night

In the wildness of the night,
when the stars were veiled
by the silvery grey clouds,
and the moon had ruled the roost.
I hark back to your soulfully intoxicated
love that reigned over me,
in the wildness of the night.

The space around burned in passion.
The heaven had came down,
entered a life groaning in pleasure,
while the scorpion of love
bit me all over in leisure.

The steady movement of the scorpion,
carpeted all of me,
injected me with love poison, overwhelmingly.

Deeply immersed in the intoxication,
My body tripped in ecstasy.
Like the venomous grey clouds of the night,
insaneness enveloped my bones and skin.

The peerless moonlight in the dark,
authoritative of the wildness,
shed a soft glow,
while the scorpion of love
warmed the skin slowly and slowly.

I hark back to your irresistible scent.
The heavy breath,
while your skin chafed mine.
The intense dance of insanity around.
The alluring scorpion bites,
which numbed me, euphorically.

Breathing the contentment,
feeling your love all over me,
I had wish to die,
drowning in your intoxicated love,
in the wildness of the night.

– Kritika Vashist

Sleepless Nights

The stars spread themselves
over the velvet night sky.
The moonlight penetrates
the darkest voids.
As the silence embarks
another sleepless night.

Through out the day
the clock ticks recklessly,
and the night appears
in a blink of an eye.
Perhaps, time loves night,
as the clock ticks like a ponderous animal.
Perhaps, nights are always heavy,
for they carry our thoughts
all our grief, all our sorrows
all broken dreams, all tomorrows.
Perhaps, nights listen patiently,
about the stories of our loneliness
of our lost love, and all secrets
of disappointment, and regrets.
Perhaps, nights are longer,
for they fight with the demon
that lives within us,
and the one only known to us.

And I wonder,
How the nights are silent,
and yet, speak the loudest.
How the nights are meant to sleep,
and yet, I am here at 1:20 am,
struggling with another sleepless night.

-Kritika Vashist