It wasn’t the full moon I fell for.

Sorry, I didn’t find you most beautiful;

Sorry, your perfect fullness couldn’t pull a gasp from my lips or a beat from my heart.

I liked you more just a day before.

The mystery of an unfinished story;

The anguish of a distant lover;

The joy of a hopeful child;

The innocence of a bride, garbed in white.

You give me the hope of loving you infinitely;

You make me believe in eternity;

A work in progress, making me a mere wanderer amidst all your phases, UNFOLDING.

Why do you still carry the love on your shoulders which you once carried in your heart?

Stories and poetry are an escape, yes.

But why escape only to come back again?

There is a depth in your eyes, a certain maturity that comes from damage;

Then why is your heart still juvenile?

Your hands have willingly grown weary by caring too much, you’ve always cared, yes.

Then why do your hands go heavy, every time they try to touch his face?

You long for the uncertain, run away with your hair flying loose;

But you stop.

Because;

Why let them play with the wind, only to tie them back again?

Writing is a curse too sweet for the soul.

For words stay for an eternity, so does love.

It stays with YOU.

You run, every single time, just to come back again.

The sky hazed purple, the clouds the color of bruises.

I was in my most vulnerable shade;

Neither purple nor grey, but white,

that would be soiled by the slightest of exposure.

It was the white of pain, the neediest of shades.

It wasn’t attention my pain sought for.

Did I crave for a palm that cared for or a shoulder to pour on?

I was confused,

white turned beige.

It was strange how physical pain triggered an emotional havoc,

mood swings was an understatement.

Solitude wasn’t sweet anymore,

loneliness stopped with its lies and revealed herself bare.

Stripped naked.

The chills creeped in.

I needed another shade to thaw the chill that spined within.

A calmer shade to paint this white canvas,

a warmer shade to make me feel at home.

A white that garbed the moon;

A fellow soul, a Nightingale.

She longed for the moon to shine on her tune;

Longing for love, for validation.

Song after song, tear after tear;

Night after night, waxing and waning and waxing again;

She sang to herself, now for herself.

She found her shade, not the white that garbed the moon;

It was her shade,

The shade of the Nightingale. 🤍❄️🌊

~Arundhati Garnaik

You look at the world as everyone else looks at it.

Too ignorant to see the deliberations of your state of denial or rather not ignorant at all, just tired.

So you shove it under the rug;

Just to see dust particles float in the air, once rays fall on it;

You pull the curtains.

Alcohol consumes you, so you never ask.

You never let winter turn to fall;

tempted to hope that spring will show up on your doorstep with your favourite flowers;

but no.

Cause you know it’s not always daisies and daffodils ;

So you stay tucked in, doors shut, not letting the winter’s chill make you quiver at night.

No you won’t even let yourself feel cold let alone feel the first fuzzy scent of spring.

You’d never question.

Never dive straight into oblivion’s throat;

Skimming through tiny answers that lead to giant questions;

All the great whys that don’t make sense until they do!

All the memories sugarcoating trauma with, “Oh so beautiful tulle and laces!” hand woven by Nostalgia refusing to sleep until she does;

All the sunshine that fall into your eyes making you cry until they don’t ;

All the pangs and dizzying pain on the left of your chest that make you gasp for air until they don’t;

All the cuts and the scars that hurt too much until they don’t.

All the conniving knives that could kill you, just that they won’t.