Art by Von Wolfe

(I)

An influencer on Instragram
once said something about low dopamine mornings.
She said one must start their day with an activity
instead of mindlessly rolling on the bed,
or scrolling through the phone.

I roll on my bed
and watch her video.

How do you measure dopamine anyway?

If they could measure mine
they would probably find it buried
in the old, metal trunk of
anxieties and other maladies.

They also say sunlight is good for low dopamine days.

It’s sunny in my city.

If I could
I would scoop up the sunlight
and pour it on my hair
until it trickles and fills my eyes.

But not today.

Today I roll on my bed
and watch her video.

(II)

I have not moved in more than 12 hours.
Except when my dog needed her bowl of water to be changed.

I wonder if she would love me
if she knew I was a nobody…

(…who is too weak to drag herself to the bath
too ashamed to see her body in the mirror
too damaged to sustain anything real
too scared to learn anything new
too undeserving of the sunlight…)

… someone who’s is simply
so less
that she would rather fade into nothingness.

(III)

These days
I am learning to make space for people
even though there’s no space for me in my own head.

I am learning to take cues from my life
and wrap the purpose of my existence around them
like a mistletoe.

My mother’s voice, my lover’s laugh, my dog’s wag.

I remind myself
how they all make me feel.
Until I cannot, anymore.

Until it all goes numb
and it’s all an indiscernible mass that chains me down to the depths of a blanket.

A fucking modern Sisyphean tragedy.
What a cliché.

Today I stayed on my bed.
Today, the words won’t make sense.
It’s not enough, not even close
yet it has to suffice.

Lines

Artwork by Giovanni Esposito

a stray line runs
from your hands to mine
traversing years of buried desires & dreams.

a thread of color drips
from your cheeks to the corner of my eyes
flushing the town with hues of our laughter.

outside, a bicycle chimes.
somewhere, a basketball ricochets off the ring.

inside, the room is filled
with familiar giggles and the smell of coffee.
bodies tangled, tongues tied together
I wonder if we look like a question mark to those in the space.

is it love?
it must be,
you look a lot like it.

Un-remembering

Literary purists might raise concerns over the veracity of the word. But what do they know?

Un-rememberering.

Painting by Stanislav Yulianovich Zhukovsky

Merriam Webster defines it as something that is not held or recorded in memory.

I beg to differ.

I beg to differ its meaning – the tenacious simplicity with which it’s out and about. Now, I know, the etymology of the word isn’t an issue of national concern. But I speak on behalf of sentimentalists such as myself.

You see, un-remembering is an act of conscious and selective forgetting.

Almost like sweeping broken shards of glass beneath the rug.
Like hiding the butt of the ninth cigarette of the day in the compost pot.
Like shutting the doors tight every time you hear your parents fight.
Like pretending your body isn’t something several strangers have claimed ownership of much before you could.

Un-rememberering.

It’s there.
Then, for the briefest while, it’s not.

Except it’s there – like halo, hazy lines of light that appear every time you squeeze your eyes shut.
It’s there – you are out in the departmental store, crying holding on to a packet of spicy ramen.
It’s there – every time a lover touches you, you remind your body that he’s different.

Un-rememberering.

Merriam Webster defines it as something that is forgotten.

Yeah, fuck you, Merriam Webster.

End (?)

I know a boy who looks like the Sun.
warm, wishful, willing;
a hue of flickering yellow
which calls me home.

Art by iulia bochis

I know a boy who loves like the ocean.
boundless, blue, brilliant;
a tint of comfort that rests under my pillow
on lonely nights.

I know a boy who smiles like the Spring.
serene, sparkling, sweet;
a shade of syrupy sunset that moves my world
one swirl a time.

in storm & rain
I have coursed through the faith in his veins.

in fog & mist
I have rested on his shoulders:
tender lotus pads of hope.

and I know my end.
his eyes are the puddle of stars that shall lead me on to it.

– S, 2022

Alive

Courtesy – Fleabag

Most of my days, are bad. Terrible. (Un)bearable.
Not with you, no.
Often in your company
I do not have to set remainders to breathe
and existing does not feel like a chore.

My faithless heart fills with gratitude
and my bones creak in relief.
I send prayers to heavens – prayers that ricochet off the clouds
and nest between the wrinkles around your eyes.
Oh, what a joy it is
to breathe the same air as you.

I think I have forgotten how must the absence of sadness feel like.
But I do remember how happiness looks like –
a gentle hand on shoulder
a kiss that feels like feather
a sharp moan when you enter me
a bite of blueberry ice cream
a crescent of your lips that almost resemble a smile
and your ten fingers & ten toes which melt into mine.
Happiness looks so much like you.

My misery melts into a puddle in the pits of your collarbones.
I shatter when apart.
Is it an oversimplification?

What might I answer you – am I happy?
What do I do?
Tear my heart out, place it in you perfect palms, and say
“Here, keep it.”

In the warmth of our embrace
I have forgotten how sadness looks like
and what a dangerous thing it is to forget the face of an old friend!

Am I happy?
Rather the question is –
could I be happier?
Some questions do not have answers.
A love like ours does not come with certainty.

You sleep with your mouth open.
Now, the morning sunlight dances on your face.
Today, I will swallow the lump of fear of loss
and build a bridge to forever.

Today, I am alive.

– S, 2021

The Art of Shrinking

• 

source: Pinterest

my lover once asked me
why my hands are always balled up in fists
as if want to punch the person next to me
or if it is a peculiarity that I picked while growing up
or if I simply like how my nails feel against the softness of my palm.

I am afraid I do not have answers.

why do I write poems with a pencil?
why does my heart behave like a madman, wanting to jump off the bridge of my ribs?
why does my stomach knit itself like grandma’s mittens, everytime that I think of living on?

how does one keep living on anyway?

I often find myself thinking of the end.
Not in a gruesome, ‘send-me-help’ kind of way, though.
I think of the simple things I hold dear
and how they would shatter beneath my feet like delicate glass menagerie,
break into stardust and scatter away in the vastness of the universe.

I have been thinking of all the small yet (in)significant deaths,
uncountable funerals of dreams and hopes
that one must host & attend
while they live on.

How profound is the knowledge
that today might be the last time my lips taste the coffee-stained lips of my lover.
or this might be the last glass of wine that I pour with my friends.

how does one live on
in the face of grief and loss
and ephemerality which hangs thick & heavy in the air.

what is living anyway
if not death prolonged?

ramblings of a madwoman

mad might not be an appropriate term to use.
pardon me, what is the most politically correct way
to say that I am going crazy?

Artwork by Philippe Caza

every-(wretched)-day, the afternoon sun rises.
light sieves through the dreamcatcher on my window
whose colourful mesh now attracts flies and nightmares.
the new day, in all its glory
mocks at my miseries.
in my room, gravity works in mysterious ways.
my body – part sadness, part smoke
stays pinned to the bed
as if it has been shackled to the chains of doom.

my mother once said
eating too much salt
can make the bones hollow.
is it possible
that my tears seep through my skin
and gnaw at my bones?
is that why
I can’t walk to the door?
is that why
my syllables melt away & my teeth fall off
before I could cry for help?

my lover says
he is worried for me.
I reassure him.
it’s not like I would try to take my life.

but tomorrow when
I am gazing at the moon with a cigarette between my fingers and friends in my arms-
I am lying on his chest and listening to the lullaby of his heart –
I am grazing my fingers through my dog’s hair and resting on my mother’s lap –
and death comes to me
a gentle push, a burning meteor, a speeding truck
nevertheless, a sweet respite…

what if?

a midsummer night’s dream

Phantom Limb by Aaron Gilbert

on a land faraway
in a quaint village on the hills,
I have built us a home
with straw-bale and sunshine

where all notions of space & time
melt into a puddle in the depth of your eyes.

we eat sausages and beans for lunch
and I dance my day away in your arms.
ocassionally, I touch you from across the room
with a smile.

I have often heard the neighbors complain
‘oh, what a wretched couple!
their house always smells
of hopes and fresh filter coffee
and is abuzz with music, laughter and moans!’

on a land faraway
in a quaint village on the hills,
I have built us a home
with clay and comfort

where, in a state of constant embrace
our bodies heave as one.

I write my name
on the satin of your skin
as you lie in a deep slumber;
my night sky filled with moles and stardust.

I have often heard the neighbors complain
‘oh, what a wretched couple!
what are they so happy about all the time?’

– S, 2021

Rajnigandha

fumes of loneliness seep into my lungs
melancholia makes home in my bones.

it is the time of the year again;
the month of empty streets
when winds blow from the gardens of the Sun.
the month of wilted Rajnigandhas
and weary dreams.

it is the time of the year again;
the winds from the land of Sun
hiss through a crowded platform
blow away a tattered cloth covering a woman’s corpse
and throw dust in the eyes of her child playing beside.
the month of dusty glass panes
and festering wounds.

fumes of loneliness seep into my lungs
melancholia makes home in my bones.

an envelope of dust settles on my books
my grandmother’s old saree
my father’s first polaroid camera
and my heart.

when did I hold them last?

ambulances whiz past
my phone chimes with memories of yesteryear.
another night dawns.
a crescent moon gleams in the sky.

the Rajnigandhas shall bloom again.

– Sanchita Dwivedi, 2021

Daydreams

Starin slowly ‘cross the sky, said goodbye by Ana Segovia

In a different world
we put the stars on snooze
and stay in bed a little longer.
Against the translucent curtains
a streak of sunbeam breaks on your face
into a thousand glorious particles of resplendence.
Your fingers trace the longitude of my spine
as my lips sleep locked with yours;
the quiet of a summer morning
only being disturbed by the whizz of air conditioner
and our intermittent breaths.

In a different world
we throw our phones into water
and waltz to patchy jazz records
endlessly, across the living room
as the air saturate with the aroma of
over-ripe mangoes & thai green.

In a different world
we put our watches away
and wash the dishes a little slower.
I linger on the countertop
dusting ash into a makeshift tray
while we discuss the politics of love.

In a different world
the flames of urgent passion
are doused with the certainty of domestic.
Surfeit with the mundanities of an ancient affair
our bodies lie apart, away
solitary in their togetherness
together in their solitude.
Our feet touch each other
as your hands sheild my face from the sun.
I turn around to fix my eyes on the stray grey brow
and seek refuge in the familiar warmth of your neck.

In a different world
I would stay the night
week, month
and the lifetime after.

In this world
would you wait ?

– S, 2020