Fix You

It's been a while since I wrote love letters
It's been a while since you received the same.
An open letter to you,
Who is more than just a name.

   Glad that you happened,
   Glad that we crossed roads
   Where this friendship nursery rhyme
   Can beat all the love odes.

So fear not my dear
You will win this war,
And I will always hold your back
From near, or from far.

   It is through today's rain,
   That tomorrow you will get your due.
   And I will silently shed pride tears
   While you, 'fix you'.

     -Abhishikta


For very specific people, with all my love.

Check

To be so tired both literally and figuratively, that you cannot sleep.

Wax Doll

There she stood
Beautiful, spotless,
Virgin stature of perfection.
Oh touch her not!
Oh tease her not!
My wax doll so dear.

So I kept it safe
For years together
For years to come,
From known attackers and sweet knives,
From disasters, from horrors,
Situations, scenes and people too strong.

Then it came one day
Calling itself 'life'
Arms wide open; intentions, unclear
With one face of hope
And the other so ugly,
Oh so ugly my dear.

To it's storm, 
To it's fire, 
I lost. 
But my darling won.
Put up a fight that would remain unknown
Scars, that would not be shown.

But to realise.
The wax doll that has always been
Is actually; steel within.
And I hope
Oh so much;
That THAT, wasn't just a dream.

-Abhishikta

Pearls Of A Rainy Friday Evening

On being someone's Sunday of life. Someone so important and yet so unwanted. Someone so desirable yet someone they used to know.

A rather confusing topic for many maybe. But then, I'm cool like that.

For all the times that I've known, mostly after joining job, Sunday is the most ambiguous day for me. Sure it starts with an early (by Sunday standards) call from home, and then from the roommate (who would diligently get breakfast for all) and I sleep more, and some more. There is this ultimatum about Sunday when we don't want to wake up because we know the moment it starts, it will end. By the time it is evening and we realize the day has not even started properly for it to end, it is Goodnight time.

So that is the thing about Sunday. We love it with a melancholy. Knowing that it has to end and it will. So we happily wait for it and step on it sadly. It is graceful poignancy with cheap greed.

Sunday is like the first love of your life whom you love with all your heart and will always do, but it will go, just because it has to go. Like your annual one week vacation to the country for which you wait but you don't want it to come, for it will go as soon as it comes. Like the sea that you love so dear but you can't keep on walking inwards forever, for your own good. Like me. Like you.

So are the rest of the days bad? So do you love Sunday the most? No, absolutely not. But there is this sense of belonging, wanting, losing, helplessness, greyness about Sunday. Maybe that's what makes it so important.

So? Who's the Sunday of your life? And how does it feel to be one?