by Kanika Ahuja
Memories of you fog my
breath on Delhi mornings.
No one can feel the warmth
escape but me, the void
making trap doors
out of windpipes.
This winter feels chilly in my toes.
There is no warmth nestled in memories
to thaw the frozen fragility of moments.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
I’ve left your pictures
in cages and bonfires
like roasting potatoes
only to hear the crackle
of your laughter.
These days, I tell you
I miss you in languages
you do not understand.
The French say you are missing
from me,
as if missing you could be an arrow
shot in the dark only to be returned
like a boomerang in your smile.
On some days, I believe On others, I believe
I am made up of memories. I am mostly memories.
My 70% water body But these are warmer weathers
a puddle, a pond, a river And I risk the infection of being
memories hover above forgotten. The irony of being
like fireflies, longing thirsty in an ocean
for sailboats to come lingers like a lump
capture in mason jars. of salt in my throat.
The first time I saw you
was by the river
your hair drenched
in the soft scent
of silver linings.
In my head
you turn around
to wave goodbye every time.
But you don’t.
And just like that
silver linings crack
through the folds
of old photographs
and all I’m left
with are fragments.
The shards of frozen
forevers, and my hands
were never a warm
place to land anyway.
Winters without you
leave wounds on dry skin
as invisible as paper cuts.
Winters without you
freeze wounds that don’t thaw.
About the Author
Kanika Ahuja is a poet, performer and educator of poetry based in New Delhi, India. She holds a Master's Degree in English Literature from Ambedkar University, Delhi and is a Jijivisha Fellow for Poetry at Slam Out Loud. Her work appears, or is forthcoming, at The Medley, Sidereal Magazine, Emerge Literary Journal, Airplane Poetry Movement’s Ultimate Poetry Anthology and elsewhere. Find her on Instagram and Twitter: @kanika0326 and https://kanikaahuja.tumblr.com.
Comments