Perhaps the emptiness
effervescing in me
has fuelled the tempest
in molten gold eyes.
i.
I have often
envisioned
your porcelain form
sketched
on a vintage couch,
with a silken sheet
baring your right breast,
and some rose-scented
strands of curly hair
lifeless
on your cheek,
like the contrast
of black ink
embossed
on the pallor of
book covers.
ii.
An outline
of a ceramic bowl,
brimming with water,
secured
on a side table
(beside your feet),
a little chipped
on the edges
with a pattern
of blue pagoda flowers
glazed on its curves,
and you were no different
(than that stillness),
being transformed
into a paragon
of a man
in love
(an artistic gaze
of ambers).
iii.
And I?
I was a moving phase,
a poet
(deprived of metaphors)
who basked in
your transparency,
and you couldn't realise
how your eyes blinked,
or the way
your subliminal thoughts
flicked to an eve
of autumn.
iv.
Perhaps you were not
a portrait of
distant galaxies
after all;
you were a philosophy
in pastel clouds,
or possibly
a breath of air
(yearning a canvas)
to be painted
in the tragedy
of achromatism.
v.
And I?
A mere poet
of your prophetic eye;
and in my poems,
you silently cry.
Esha Yadav
BA English Hons
3rd Year
Edited by Kumkum Singh and Shreya Jathavedan
Art curated by: Naina Sarma
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