Let’s live forever.

Let’s live forever.

“You know, I’d heard that if you fall in love with a poet, you’d live forever as poetry. But you haven’t written something for me or used metaphors for me ever since I said I loved you. Why is that?”

“I cannot believe you don’t remember why,” I giggled. “You remember how we partied the night we told each other we were in love? We were both six shots down but only you were drunk because of the alcohol. I’d willed myself to not be drunk because I wanted to remember every bit of that day. You asked me that night, after thirty-seven minutes of confessing your love, to never write a poem on you. I was still thinking of how you’d told me that I made your heartbeat the same way it beat when you were swimming – your favorite thing in the whole wide world, and how there were a hundred butterfly strokes in your stomach when I kissed you. But I managed to ask why you didn’t want me to write on you. You told me you didn’t want to be here after I was gone, even if as a happy love poem.”

“That does sound plausible. Let’s change that for a bit. I don’t want reasons why you love me. I want metaphors. Shoot for the stars, poet!” You laughed, six shots down again.

“Okay, poetry. You’re the eighth color of the rainbow. I know there are ‘supposedly’ only seven, but I think of the sky as the eighth color. Humans tend to limit things but poetry doesn’t believe in that. Like the beautiful sky, I see you everywhere. You’re my seventh shot of this tequila. I’m sure I’ll get drunk if I have it, just like I’m drunk on you all the time. Do you know the feeling you get when you go home at the end of the day and your puppy leaps onto you? You’re it. You’re my panipuri (an Indian tasty dish), novels, green t-shirt, my heart. You’re everything that makes me happy.”

“I think if I write a poem on you (it’ll be pretty bad but who cares?) and you write one on me, I won’t be here alone as a happy love poem. We’ll be the happy love poem. But you should know, you’re very cheesy.”

“and you’re very beautiful.” I kissed you.


Into poetry? – Soulmates?
Instagram – @myspirals

Purple

Purple

I came up with the first two lines and the last two lines about two weeks ago. Then, I used them as a prompt and expanded it into a poem. The thing about prompts for poetry is, it doesn’t have to be one word. It can be an interesting conversation that you come up with or a cool concept you find on the internet. Don’t limit yourself with just a word. Be inspired by anything. I hope you like this poem! (also, I don’t want any of you to miss this in the poem so here goes: red+blue=purple)


You told him your favorite color,
he shrugged and said “okay”.
Six shots down, you wrote I love you
on the back of his white tee
and he never wrote it again.
You were just another “he loves me not”.
Even after you sung him songs,
he slept humming the tune of Lonely – Akon.
There’s this concept of
With the sea in your eyes,
you told him you had to let go
if he didn’t say he loves you, if he didn’t promise a forever.
He shrugged and said “okay”.
It wasn’t an Augustus Waters reference.

Continue reading Purple

Time stamps.

Time stamps.

It’s been a while. Here’s a little something I wrote. It’s about diaries and memories and tragedies. Also, wine. There’s also a few tv show references that I’d be very happy to clear if you don’t get it. Let me know in the comments. Also, tell me if you liked it and tell me about your favorite person by using their (estimate) time stamp.


“Happy stories are like glasses of wine. They don’t last forever unless you have a big bottle hidden somewhere.” – The first page of Ellen’s diary.

More often than not, even your diary isn’t the best hiding place for all your stories. Mostly because of how careless most human beings tend to be. Ellen knew this and so, she used code names for everyone in her diary. Her brother, born a year after her on May 5th at five minutes past midnight was 0005. Her parents were 0000, she’d known them forever. Do you see the pattern? Her codenames were the time stamps of her first meeting with the people the name is for. She even followed the 24-hour time so that she never ends up mixing two names. 

He was 0245. They’d met in the only store open past midnight when she’d gone to buy candies. She didn’t have enough cash so he chipped in and she thanked him by giving him a candy and her number. Later that night, in her diary, 0245 was the most beautiful boy she’d ever met. “He walked so softly, his footsteps were barely audible on the hardwood floors of the store. His eyes did not know what silence was, though. He had chocolate-dipped strawberry eyes. That boy,” she wrote on and on about him.

They started texting back and forth and often stayed up together way past midnight. They created art together about the ocean’s rage when the moon forgot to text, the lost men who lived at home, the tracks that the sun leaves behind, the songs of half-filled wine glasses and drunk people. She wrote poems and he drew. It was a happy story. There were ballroom dances in bedrooms, pizzas and tv shows. He showed her Barney, she showed him Joey. She ate the pizza, he ate the cheese-dipped crust. He drew on her, she wrote poetry on his skin.

They didn’t have a big bottle of wine. They ran out of things to do and reasons to love. 0245 was the first one to fall out of love. He was a good man (like Theon), so he knew he couldn’t hold onto Ellen, he couldn’t hurt someone he loved once. So he broke up. He drew her a candy in the shape of a broken heart and wrote her a poem about paper-cuts on hearts. Something very break-up-ish. He gave it to her on a Sunday morning and they spent the day talking about memories – finding the right ones to heal, together.

Her diary weeped that night, “I ran out of strawberries. I ran out of candies.”

She had to write about him and she had to heal but 0245 – his first time stamp – wasn’t the best way to do it. It reminded her of the start of the story. So that night, she asked to meet him in the candy store and kissed him goodbye at 02:45 – his new time stamp.


Into poetry? – Trigger alert
Instagram – @myspirals

Poetry on her skin.

Poetry on her skin.

Hey! I wrote this poem based off of a prompt I got from another poem by the same name. Check it out here: “click me”. I hope you like it! Also, I deliberately put in a reference to Marvel because Avengers: Endgame is always on my mind. Enjoy the poem and tell me what you thought!


1957,
one autumn night,
she asked me to write poetry on her skin.
It was right after I’d kissed her waist
and told her how her skin reminded me of paint –
of blue seas, white birds, yellow autumn leaves, and red wine,
every shade that made her human.
She smiled because she knew the artist in me was talking.
She took a pen and gave it to me
and asked me to color her with shades of poetry.

Continue reading Poetry on her skin.