by Vaishnavi Sharma
The sleeves of your t-shirt extend to my palms and I stuff my toes in colourful socks, the wind was cold and you were the only warm place I recognized.
I tried holding the sun in my folded hands, like a lotus that’s waiting to burst into flames; you think this is madness, I call it hope.
The breeze is breathing next to my ear, singing perhaps, in a strange, foreign sound — its language collapses to the walls of my ignorance but I barely try to familiarize myself.
His arms are comfortable, to say the least; my ankles rest on his lap like they’ve known its texture since the beginning of time, the fear of extensive love haunts me.
— lyrics of a Hindi song
There is a light the world does not know of : blinking brown irises against the white of my pillow covers; the sun smiles with the curves of his grin, ear to ear. I watch the hills dance to his laughter and I sing love songs stretching my arms towards his soft embrace. This light breathes against the nape of my neck and jumps into the lakes of longing, the brown in his beard reminds me of my soil; I’d like to call him my home, my love, my light.
There are nights when I waltz around my house
with doors, poles, mops, vacuum cleaners;
my red dress curtains my calves too,
its balloon end is the fancy of my waist,
the wind likes to stroke my dress, play.
some mornings I sleep in, get cozy in blanket
and later, cook myself a brunch;
step out in the sunlight, wearing my banana shorts
and sing to the sunflowers.
I wait under the belly of the sky, wait for myself;
it’s only now that I have learned to coexist
with my body and my mind and my core,
only now have I learnt self love,
only now have I known love.
If lovers came in all shapes and sizes,
you would look something like
a purple coloured unicorn on
a rainbow cloud.
The kind that comforts the tiny kid
Inside your being and makes the
butterflies in your stomach flutter,
the kind that means ‘all things good,’
the kind that tastes like candy floss
on a giant wheel, the kind that
makes you go weak in the knees.
If lovers were like days of the week,
you would be Wednesday,
pretty spelling and prettier pronunciation,
halfway through the week (yay),
a gap of two between you and
Monday’s blue and you and Saturday, too.
If lovers were like flavours,
you would be chocolate-almonds with
a hint of vanilla and coffee,
good for health, good for soul and
pretty damn good for work (wink, wink).
If lovers were like flowers,
You would be a bouquet of
carnations and lilies,
no ‘is it giving out mixed signals’ like lotuses,
no ‘what if they’re allergic’
like sunflowers,
no ‘it’s too overrated’
like roses,
just pure love, carefree and gorgeous.
If love was like constellations,
ours would be brand new,
joining the lines between old stars
creating diamonds or kites
(because you say it feels so precious,
and I think it tastes like freedom).
Vaishnavi is a 19-year-old student from Delhi, India. Shelikesto talk (a lot) about poetry, history, sciences, and politics. Her work has appeared in Ang(st) Zine, Marias at Sampaguitas, Esthesia Mag, among others. She over-shares on Instagram @um.vaishnavi.
