Ankahee

a cross-legged anomaly of contradictions, her brown eyes drooping but awake. thoughts nestle like cuckoos in the little crow's nest that sits like a lopsided crown atop her head. the bed is still warm from the snow angel-like prints her dreams compelled her to create. it is early and faintly blue, and cold but not chilly. the kind that makes you want to laze and slip in and out of consciousness. she rubs the palms of her hands along the lengths of her plump arms and heaves a little sigh. she wonders how the day will play out today; she is still getting used to the aloneness of a new city and a new sun.  a few short steps and her fingers flex in swirling steam from the water that cleanses their current inky-ness, itching to recolour themselves in the fresh story that today would be. she worries whether it will bring a smile to the ones she yearns to reach out to; she is still to learn the nuances of loving herself.  then, as the hem of her light blue dress kisses the

The clocks ticks slowly, I can hear the steady drip of the water in the bathroom. Your skin and bones are fragile, I don’t want to touch them, I don’t want to break you. There are birds outside the window, chirping gaily, I can hear the peepal leaves rustle in the gentle wind. Your breaths are peaceful, I don’t want to wake you, I don’t want to break the spell of your dreams. The t.v. in the room speaks in static, I can hear a lady singing her little child to sleep. Your hair fans the pillow, soft and wispy, I don’t want to change it, I don’t want to change you. The phone buzzes in my pocket, I can hear my fluttering heart and my fast breaths. Your eyes flutter a little, your finger twitches, I don’t want to be there when you wake up, I don’t know if I can move. The syllable of my name doesn’t form on your tongue, I cannot hear familiarity in your voice. You don’t remember me, again. I don’t want to remind you. But I will.

i seem to like all things raw: unrefined music made out of sheer faith in the art. undulating landscapes, untouched by man’s need for perfection. serrated leaves, instead of shapely rounded ones, just because. deep thoughts, expressed for the first time to a person just discovered. bad handwriting in personal diaries, flooding with emotion. oh, and mangoes- the sourness of their youth, still intact. doodles at the right top corner of an economics textbook, made in oblivion. people on a sugar high, not drunk, and happy to be happy in sweetness. a perfect take in drama class, only because  of absolute acceptance of the character. tears at the touch of a heartfelt poem, never mind language or opinion. reminiscence of a dark past, and yet a smile dancing at the memory of it. wild hair, untreated and uncombed, for various reasons. a break-free moment in the heavy rain- dancing in utter abandon. and words, stammered and stuttered, but