Chandni M
Everytime it is the first of April
An ember heats itself up
Fingers itch
Words play catch on the tip of
tongue
Mind skims old posts, musing over
what can be said,
No rehearsals, no verses to string
the in-between months together
Heart refusing to let a good thing
die
A good thing that gave life to a
sombre soul,
Everytime it is the first of April,
The inner poet stretches awake
from an enduring slumber.
@painonpepper
I was here
Sitting surrounded by piles of washed clothes
Half folded and piled
Segregated into him, kitchen and mine
On the label it wrote
Pomegranate and mint
Only it tasted like orange and gin
sipping a bottle of Kombucha
Wanting but too tired for ice
On my lap a laptop
Unfinished work piling on my head
Chores after chores
Leaving no space for words to rhyme
Yet I sit here
With a torn page in my hand
A crayon left on the floor
Scribbling words, fullstops and commas in line
In the hope
To clean the mess of my life
You ask a month?
But we go back in years
By years I say
A little shy of what I age
Now this sickness is part of me
Confused in the marrow of it
Am I the malady or just the symptom
May be both
May be neither
May be this confusion is the whole disease
You have served me in strange ways
kept me company in rooms
That others won’t enter
And I have been a willing conduit
Healing and hurting together
We have walked miles
And we know where the journey ends
Until then its me and you against the time
