Poetry

A Struggling Poet In Love

the moonlight from the window casts white shadows on the walls— under their shelter, I tap away on my phone.

the unsettling 1am silence—
a crippling fear to begin a new day
to be in the middle of a thousand windows turning dark,
until a calm serenity ripples through the room
at 3am, when the world feels like it belongs
all to you, only to you.

the moonlight from the window
casts white shadows on the walls—
under their shelter, I tap away on my phone.
my eyes strain, visions blurred
under the soft glaring of the phone screen
but it barely feels like an inconvenience.

abandoning papers and pencils,
I stare at a blank screen waiting for the
muses to enlighten me, enrapture me, possess me.
but the blank screen remains blank
and the pencil quietly smirks away;
perhaps I could have doodled uncomfortable shapes on a paper.

unable to produce letters, words, poetry
i call myself an imposter, a liar, a failure
cooked up in the hole that screams incompetence.
I write few words to convince myself of something otherwise
but i stare at them again and again-
until they disown their meanings and become mere shapes.

backspacing and withdrawing,
I turn myself to the texts I receive from Her—
suddenly the moonlight starts dancing like water under sunlight.
I tell her about my futile attempts
she cradles me and kisses me softly with her words
I wonder if poetry can make one feel the way she makes me feel.

seconds become hours, and hours turn into minutes
we might have opened all the treasures in our hearts
showed each other the weird, the hidden, our queer minds.
I must have sent her enough words
to create a whole new galaxy for us
she takes my hand and I follow her into the new world.

perhaps I could stitch together poetry
from the words I send her— I read them, I cry
I let my tears fall on my thighs
perhaps I’ve been writing poetry all this while
whispering words to her, building us a home
texting her all the ways I love her.

at times, when sunlight shines through my window instead
I yearn to wake up, smelling her, kissing her,
our hairs tangled into one, hands mingling into each other—
I feel like screaming my lungs out
“I love her! I love her ! I love her !
and she loves me ! she ! loves me !”

when she smiles and laughs and kisses my nose,
I feel like folding all the texts into
pages and pages, bind them into a book —
call it a poetry collection, call it sun(shining) on dandelions
and wish
the universe will put it on the bestsellers list.

I drown in her eyes
and I collect my words, collect my poetry,
hide it away; I let it drown in her eyes too.
I wrap myself in her and I whisper into her chest —
no one deserves to see it; it is only meant for you.

This story was about: Community Gender Identities Sexuality

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Athira (she/they) is a writer and photographer based in Delhi and their work is a form of storytelling- mostly exploring people's relationship with the spaces they occupy and the ordinariness of life.
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Athira Raj

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