why are wilting flowers metaphoric to us?
is it the slow painful descent to nothingness or the beauty of the smell that lingers in an otherwise thick air.
is it how it lost colour to age or that it withstands the windy days still.
is it how it crushes when i hold it tight or the last few breaths left of its old form.
is it the shriveled edges and dried insides or the timed escape from the window it sat by.
/kritika.
a still night beholds in its arms
an eerie cold breeze.
it skulks across the room
hoping to find home.
in the warmth of your lips,
it finds its flame
and thus, it rests, it rests beside the bewitching luminosity.
this forbidden touch
reminds it of how
mere proximity quenched its eternal thirst of belonging.
how some bonds blossom
devoid of intersection.
how some nights dictate
that the general precept be dissociated coexistence.
/kritika.
beneath half moon skies and a nip in the air, i shudder.
your memory has found its way into my dreams.
i tremble as i feel your scent and collapse when your arms envelope me.
it’s a forgotten familiarity that lurks in absoluteness.
as agony kicks in, i clutch it with all my might. it’s my shield, my armour.
soon enough, the shield enfeebles, soaked in grief.
i gather all the fragments, gulp them in and with quivering breaths dwell into sleep.
and such is my journey through every lucid dream.
/kritika.
it’s probably a bad day to be writing for i’m more lost than ever. but maybe, that is what is making me.
the morning is up and i never slept. i can see light peering through the blinds and i lay here wondering the very reason of my unhappiness.
maybe it’s just the want to do so much but the fear of being an underachiever. or just the regret of not beginning so as not to be one.
my success dreams in broad daylight and i burn the midnight oil drenched in self doubt. i feel the sparkle within fading but also the spark never giving up.
it could be my gratitude for everything that keeps this motor running and maybe, just maybe, i’ll doze off for just a little bit as the light shines on me in all its glory.
-kritika
I hope you find solace
in the silent creeks
of your being than
in the wildfire
of their pride.
/kritika.
tears fill up the crow’s feet, bends of the nose, all possible crevices on her face and finally drip down the edge of her chin dimple.
marked by a red nose and flushed cheeks as if someone rubbed some beat beets on them.
a thin strand of saliva symbolic of the puppy yelps broadening and narrowing with the width of her mouth.
the abrupt breaths break and try to take control of themselves simultaneously.
the sweat makes all her pores invisible and she beams like molten wax.
with strength mustered, looking at her reflection, she wonders if the world deserves an artwork so intense.
/kritika.
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