I think my love is meant for someone
who ceased existing centuries ago,
and now, all I have is grief to hold in my hands
and stupid poems I wrote in the washroom of my school
in the name of love.
When I look into the eyes of another stranger,
I hope they would smile
because my lips are too cracked to give one.
But all they do is look away,
like I am not a thing to look at
with compassion,
like my soul doesn't deserve this kindness.
I stay up till three,
thinking whether only love could save us from ourselves
or it is just another line that
I read in random suicide letters found on the internet.
The moon hanging on my half misted glass window
is just as alone as I am,
with all the stars miles away from him.
And while I cry between these four pastel-coloured walls,
he hides behind the grey clouds,
screaming in his own sky
that I can't even touch.
My grandmother's favourite flower
was lavender.
She recited the fragrance of it by heart,
and her house was always filled with purple candles and oils.
Even though she never held a petal of it between her fingers,
she loved it.
She loved it
as people love random poetries scribbled in the margin of notebooks,
or the lit Christmas lights hanging over an empty house.
When she died,
grandpa silently placed a stalk of lavender in her hand
before she was taken away.
I hoped
that one day I would love someone
as my grandma loved that flower,
too poetic to not touch its skin for a lifetime
but leave its scent lingering in every poem I write.
-Shriyanshi Yadav
(B.A. Programme)
(Edited by Tushita and Pallavi
Art curated by Pallavi)
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