Articulately Voiceless | ✓

066

i walked past your home the other
day and couldn't help but let my eyes
wander over to the familiar nooks and
corners; the window on the far right
—where hiding away from onlookers
we'd stay up late, trying to decipher
stories of the strangers who
walked past your house. where at
16 you kissed me for the first time,
whispering how you had been
thinking of this for a while now.
where on a starry night we had
made love, with the rest of the
world slowly fading away
into nothingness.

i couldn't help but be drawn to the
messy arrangement of flower pots
right under that window (roses,
sunflowers and a certain white
petalled one whose name i could
never remember) your father
haphazardly placed back when we
were in 6th grade, ensuring that
water from the occasionally leaking
pipes situated right above never went
wasted. i remember how you'd bring
me one of those white flowers everyday
and then grin widely when i would
scold you, shutting me up effectively
with the 'they look much more
beautiful on you, anyway.' not going
to lie simply thinking of it still
makes me blush at times.

sighing deeply i stepped closer to
your house basking in the familiarity
of the place, only for reality to sink
in once again. if i listened closely,
i could faintly make out the static
of the radio along with the clanking
of utensils. your mother, i presume,
was trying to drown the haunting
silence you left. for a fleeting moment
i considered walking inside but the
thought went away as soon as it
came. what should i tell her?
previously i would talk to her
about you, but now? what do i do?
so, i do the one thing i'm good at.
i leave. leave before your mother
could find me crying my heart
out in her backyard.

and now here i am, right in front
of you with my heart racing exactly
the same way it did the very first
time i saw you. absentmindedly my
fingers caress the flowers lying in
front of me, the white ones you'd
always bring me. and even though
for as long as i can remember i kept
telling you that they looked their
best in your home, this time
i had to disagree.

because you see, flowers look
their prettiest in graveyards.

— anwesha s.

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i usually don't add pictures of what inspired me or anything related to the theme of the narration but i took this picture (the flower one above) after losing a competition (thanks to this writing burnout that's been here for a while now) and when i was this close to quitting poetry or writing in general altogether the flowers reminded me why i started in the very first place. so if there is anyone who seems to be stuck rn, don't give up. i'm here, i'm rooting for you. ❤️