[Note from Frolic: We are so excited to announce our new series of modern love poetry from the top poets on Instagram. Next up is part 2 of a collection from @shruteechoudhary. Read part one here.]
Six
You spilled some red wine when we met. and when you were busy picking up the shards
of your broken glass, that red wine left a bit of a stain
on your tile. It even spilled
into the next morning, I knew the clouds were odd coloured, on my way back home
after having spent the night at yours.
some of it was on the shirt I’d been wearing, some dripped on my arm.
the stain was your skin, cold, then suddenly warm after having touched me.
I have felt warm for days
in the inches around my waist, on my lip, on my nape.
you have cleaned your tile, the weather itself has changed. clouds are white again.
but I’ve been avoiding doing laundry. my shirt still holds the stain. that’s how I’m near you.
Seven
I love you
In the intervals between our phone calls,
In the lost minutes of two timezones.
I love you
In the silences that come with breathing,
because my love is grand, enormous,
too much — to carry all the way from my heart, upward, to lay it on my lips,
and then to enunciate.
So I let it sit inside my chest, I let it grow rapidly and like high tides, sometimes
the waves come gushing out of my eyes. The word spells like tears but its definition is love.
I love you
In the way I exist, just as,
inexplicably there.
Eight
f i V e
I opened my eyes
and in five heartbeats
worth of time
you told me
I was no more your muse.
it took me five minutes
to understand
that our clustered yesterdays
would be torn apart
ruthlessly now, in a haste
for you to leave
on a plane
to a multi-verse
that I don’t exist in.
“I’m sorry about this”
you said
with your eyes
elsewhere
entry denied
and I sat on the sheet
we made love upon
night after night
with a broken heart
and five empty words
scattered like a
jigsaw puzzle
with missing pieces.
I didn’t cry
there wasn’t going to be
enough tears
to mourn after
the five years
we spent
drawn upon each other
with stencils
in permanent marker.
now my days are darker
than your tousled black hair
inviting new fingers
to ruffle through it.
It’s been five months
since you left
and I’m still
peeling off the glue
that kept us together.
last night
when a thunderstorm
woke me up
I was terrified
that it was you
and it took me
five seconds to realise
you were never here to last
just like the bad weather.
Nine
it rarely happens
that a person is so
spellbound by something
that words escape
like the soul wanders off
to some place each night
to make one dream
and all they are left with
is silence
so if I could dip
my tongue like quill
into your skin
I wouldn’t sink
but float seamlessly
to far ends of your body
for I am a writer
and I’m weightless
without words
and that’s how you leave me.
Ten
your earthy eyes
hold all wilderness
and in the dark
they are what overlook
the ocean
and with them you gaze
at my eyes and tell me
you see the moon in them
I smile with sweet realisation
that without you
there is no me
you hold me in your sky
keeping me close
but not too close
my frail strings loosely
wrapped around your finger
as if you could let go
at any moment
yet you choose not to
this overwhelming thrill
sends chills down my spine
they trickle all the way down
into your deep waters
and make tides rise
and I fear for my sanity
at times
but that’s how we meet
and I wouldn’t change
a thing.
Eleven
We were paper boats in a puddle
so delicate, a brisk breeze away
from spinning in separate directions.
so transitory, a season away
from being thrown into a purposeless corner
where all forgotten things go.
yet, we tumbled together in motion
round and round we went
orbiting around what we thought was love
amused and innocent
awaiting storms so we could last
in the little world that was overcast
and when the sun came
we had nowhere to be
now I wait for another rainstorm
to bring you back to me.
About the Author:
When I’m not busy being a goofball, I like to complicate my life for a living, so I can try and uncomplicate it with words.
I like to travel and make pictures. I’m also an actor, so I’m really all about the stories.
In poetic terms,
I’m the wormhole between reality and fiction
I’m the rhyme and the contradiction.