poetry is in looks. maybe it's the look your closest friend gives you when you're falling down a rabbit hole at alarming speeds. when they're telling you to get your shit together, or when they're telling you it'll eventually be okay, to just hang in there. there is poetry in the lines of these faces. in their contours and in their wrinkles, in their smile lines and in their frowns.
when your mother speaks, it's poetry. your mother's poetry is cordon bleu- there is a taste to it. sometimes your mother's poetry is her sass, in her chilly beef and other times, it's her eloquence, fighting for equal rights of all people, in mexican chicken. your mother's poetry is blanched and braised, sometimes baked. those days, it has a scent, one that's better than freshly baked bread.
when poetry doesn't have a taste, it has a ring to it. poetry is all the bollywood songs your arch-enemy-turned-friend and you can't stop bonding over. it is in these melodramatic songs and swarms of back-up dancers belonging to karan johar classics that you find your new friendship blossoming. sometimes, poetry is in textbooks, when you feel yourself smile unconsciously at a memory from your tenth grade finals flash in your mind on reading a specific part of an old textbook. there is poetry is in those codes and mnemonics and notes and inside jokes that you created together. there is poetry in the near-panic attack moments before the test, and there is poetry in the soothing hugs that follow.
there is poetry in the sea, and it's violence and calm, and in the stars, in their twinkling and coy hiding. there is poetry in the sky, when it is covered by the colours of a rainbow, representing equality in love and of course- there's poetry in poetry. there's poetry in phil kaye and his ballroom-minded nama, and there's poetry in olivia gatwood and her opinions on teen girls. there's poetry in the city you want to live in and in all your favourite places in your old school. there's poetry in the photographs you took at the most (in)opportune moments, and in all the photographs you didn't take. there's poetry under your skin, and in your blood and your bones and your brain chemicals. and then. and then, there's your poetry. floating around in sea air, and sprinkled over someone's ice cream. if you're lucky, you'll find someone, and your poetry will be in them. in their soul, folded away with their treasured memories, waiting to be reopened when they find you.
-poetry isn't always words; poetry has different languages.
