I’m grinding against you,
day and night,
I know it is futile,
And you won’t yield.
Some people find it disgusting.
They spit on me.
“It is insolent, for a girl… My god, such desires!”
I do not know how to explain the appetite.
Cave in, is their command.
Cave in, is also my plea to you.
It’s sad, isn’t it?
That love is nothing but the residual of two overturning bodies?
I am reeking all day.
Consumed and spat.
What happens to the flowers that shrink before they reach full bloom?
They don’t adorn the lover’s hair.
They don’t make it to the wedding wreath.
They are sold separately, I think.
The purpose having served.
It may be my courage or insolence,
But do you, my love, have the nerve to clasp my thorns?
I Wrote You a Love Song I wrote you a love song, and you never wrote back again. It's all right. Because, promises are never set in stone. And I know, my heart. And yours. And I remember, when you had run your fingers through my hair. It was dark, and it was cold, and I remember it rained that December. It was tea, I think. Or coffee. And your hands had cupped me or maybe there was someone else. With us. Or. On your mind. And I remember you breaking into smiles. And I thought it was when you caught me clicking you, but maybe it was someone else. With you. Or on your mind. And then I noticed pictures of my back on your phone and it sends me thrills and I'm aroused. But then I wonder, if it was someone else. With you, Or on your mind, or someone that your eyes were looking for, when they looked at me. Because it was never my face. And so I cut those locks, that maybe, you would see me the way I know you could. But, I'm not jealous, because I remember we kissed once, and it was all my laughter in your mouth. I hope you remember. Because I do. And I was happy. So happy. I haven't slept since. Because it was you. And I remember your drunk voice. You got melancholy in your eyes. And your hands are hard, and skinny, and strong, and strangely warm. And I remember, you wouldn't let me touch, because my hands are always cold. And your smile. It's so rare. The big one. And I wonder, if I've seen it. If it were ever for me. But tell me, we were lovers, or God is dead. Because I remember your cigarettes, and your journals and your dreams, and your rebellion. And I could tell you, your favourite color. And the song you listen to when you're drunk. I know you love your mom. You'd never let anyone see you cry. I fell in love, deeper with your sorrow. And I remember, sitting awkwardly on that passenger seat. It was noisy, but I was so in love with you, jerking and giggling on every puddle, and inching myself closer to you. But for your nonchalance! You jumped off, before it could stop. It took you a while to remember that I had tagged along. Because your steps were paced, maybe with someone else. Who'd been with you. Or was on your mind.
***Kanika Katyal is an optimist and a definite feminist; she thrives on coffee, cinema and conversations (in that order). She’s also a compulsive reader who bookmarks books with other books, swears by poetry and professes that “Passion is Piety.” Currently studying for her Master of Arts in English at the University of Delhi, and a former community manager and features writer at Youth Ki Awaaz, Katyal stays busy. Katyal has also written for HT City. She tweets at: https://twitter.com/PopZilla_ ***