I once wrote a poem where I promised my imaginary lover I would write them a poem each day,
Wrap it up in metaphors about the oceans and sunsets and evening chai in Connaught Place,
Serve it to them in the small pockets of bouquets and jewelleries.
It's been 43 days since I last wrote a poem -
My lips are parched,
My fingers are pruned,
My skin has cracked
And my throat feels logged.
My pen is caked with arbitrary letters from the English alphabet,
Trying to form coherent words
Trying to utter honest sentences -
See, I want to write a poem on how warm you feel,
But what words do I use in place of soft and kind and beautiful
And human?
I once spoke of building forts of metaphors, filling oceans with similes, stacking mountains with imageries
So I never run out of them,
Or because I used to never run out of them.
Yesterday I pulled the word Sunlight out from them,
Only to realise Sunlight fades but your warmth never does,
Sunlight is irritating in summers but your crazy never is,
Sunlight is damp and waning in winters, but your gentleness never is.
Now I'm not sure if gentleness is a word but it's been 44 days now since I last wrote a poem
And I absolutely hate the one I'm currently writing,
Hate the way it breaks down between sentences,
Looses meaning midwords,
Lacks direction and purpose and oh, it just needs more stanzas I think.
The first time I met you, you told me you like my poems.
Last night you told me you still like my poems,
Like the ones I haven't even written yet,
But you trust that I will,
And I think you're crazy, because you most definitely are,
But see, you are the crazy that believes in fairy dust,
Because last I checked, you have half merblood and half sailor blood,
Because you are friends with the kraken
Because the pirate I captured a year back while she was trying to sneak elvish weapons into my kingdom, turned out you and your friends had already defeated her once,
Because you have magic trailing from your fingertips when all of the world is a wreck,
So I guess, I still have a little hope that my poetry will survive.
