'Come here, my lamb.'
I settle my head upon your shoulder
—I'm dreaming again.
Northern lights tint your beard pink and blue
as usual, a book sits propped on your lap.
Flicking it open, you begin to read.
Your voice is blooming with music and mayhem,
there's no one on earth like you.
I can nestle and shelter in your arms for hours
and be still—at home, in bliss.
You once said that I was a copy of you
and Mum at this age, I hope it's true.
Your quiet introspection,
Mysterious melancholy
and candid raptures of mirth
are life's nectar, flowing freely
Like waves in response to a full, new moon
I wish you'd come back, sometimes.
The spare room is missing its Desi cloth and Amla oil,
the soothing scent of my sweetest Grandpa.
Let's drink chai in the afterlife,
As you recite me old poems you wrote.
I'll not forget you when I wake up,
and I won't in any life.
YOU ARE READING
Lives Collide
PoesiaDo I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes). - 'Song of Myself,' Walt Whitman It's hard to know sometimes who you're meant to be. And that's kind of okay. One day I feel like a witch, another like...
