metaphor – My Spirals

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

Trigger alert.

Trigger alert.

The title is also the precaution I’d like you to take before reading the poem. While this post is fictitious, I don’t know where the line stops. So help me out, okay?
I wrote this because I know how tough it can be with triggers all around you. This post is not going to help heal you but maybe it’ll let you know we all have triggers. If you don’t know what triggers your friend’s bad memory, ask and try to not hurt them. It’ll mean so much to everyone. I hope you like this poem. Enjoy 🙂

Triggers come in all shapes and sizes.
A moving train,
a pizza boy, an autumn leaf,
26 alphabets, crop-tops,
anger, the chains of a swing.
It could be anything.

Little pockets of love.

Little pockets of love.

Hey! I’ve seen people search for love so much, I decided to write something on a part of it. This is my attempt. It’s about where a certain someone looks for love and where she’ll end up finding it. Do tell me if you like it. Give me prompts in the comments below and follow me on Instagram! I post written stuff there too. Enjoy 🙂

I’ve seen you look for love
in everything that is over-sized.
You went to beaches,
hoping love would hop out of the waves
looking very metaphor-esque.
You stared at the moon,
waiting for it to confess
that it has hidden ‘the one’ in
the folds of its white poetry paper.
You asked the mountains if they had seen it,
hoping love was somewhere in the brown maze.
Instead, they echoed back tales
of lost men with galaxy eyes.

Cinderella’s shoes.

Cinderella’s shoes.

“Upon the palms of my hand, I have written your name.” – Isaiah 49:16

Never had he felt the warmth of her fingers before. He had anticipated it to be like the warm sun on a cold morning, something that would make him shiver and smile. He had imagined it to be like hot coffee or the softest quilt, or the rush of caffeine in his veins, and pictured it to be normal, with a shade of love. It was nothing like it.

Late at night that first day, as they looked at each other, too tired to say anything, he touched her face. His fingers trailed on her skin, as he touched her cheeks. They were cold and he would want it no other way. He held her face and looked at her as shivers ran through him. And then she touched his face. Her fingers trailed on his skin. They were cold and he would want it no other way. Everything inside him froze, except where she held him. He felt no rush of blood, and he could feel her fingers getting colder. And he liked it. It was like walking toward the sunset.

He placed his hand on top of hers, and let the fingers intertwine. They fit like puzzle pieces. The cold was slowly ebbing away. The warmth was returning to their fingers, their cheeks were getting redder, and their eyes were locked onto each other. It was 3:04 A.M. and he remembered something. “Nothing good happens after 2 A.M.” And he knew he was screwed. That made him happy.

They say hands are like Cinderella’s shoes – magical.
They say hands are what makes tomorrows.

With her hand in mine, I think I had more than just tomorrows. This wasn’t normal, with a shade of love. This was love, with a shade of insanity. The sun was setting.

“People fall in love in mysterious ways. Maybe just the touch of a hand.” – Ed Sheeran

Instagram: @myspirals
Related post : Midnight.

Give me prompts in the comment section below and share if you liked this!

60 and in love.

60 and in love.

A dialogue/story-telling piece. I hope you like it! Give me prompts or tell me if you liked this or share your love story in the comments section! I’m looking forward to it. I hope you enjoy reading this! 🙂

“What does it feel like to be 60 and in love?”

“Routine and magical. We’ve only been together since I turned twenty-eight but I could swear even a day with him feels like a forever. You know how everyone wants a forever? He gave me forevers. Plural. I don’t know why I’m an English professor :P. When we went on our first date, he told me he was obsessed with Christmas, hot chocolate and love. On our fifth date, I found out why. Three more dates later, we had hot chocolate from the same cup. Thirty-two years later, we are madly in love. It’s very similar to what reading your favorite book for the fifth time feels like: you know all of the story and you know almost every word, but the ‘almost’ always means there are surprises.

Once, he wrote me a letter while we lived in the same house. It was addressed “to my nutty Belgian dark chocolate ice cream”. He posted it, and waited for it to come back. Throughout the letter, he spoke about me as if I was his favorite ice cream, his knight in shining armor, and his favorite season.

I try to think of a time when we weren’t together but I never can. That makes me very glad. I know I lived twenty-eight years without him but every time I think of some childhood memory, he’s always there in the frame. Hiding behind curtains for every time I think of home and sitting in cup holders for my family long drives. I think it’s because I’ve told him the story so many times that it no longer is only mine. Together, we’ve lived 120 years worth of memories and we know what every one of those felt like: like nutty Belgian dark chocolate ice cream. In other words, every memory, together or not, was yum. I should not be an English professor.”

“That sounds amazing. What do you need me for, then?”

“I’m 60. My forever can end any day. Who do you go to when you’re scared if not to a therapist?”

Previous post: It is okay.
Instagram: @myspirals

Give me prompts in the comment section. Also, tell me if you like the huge capital first letter.