I am not your past,
I am not the present,
I am definitely not the future.
So, maybe I am just a fleeting moment,
that touches you briefly and fills you up with promise of beautiful tomorrow,
Or just a distraction that adjusts your focus,
Maybe just a whiff of breeze that caress your face
on a hot summer afternoon to give you brief solace.
Maybe just a glimmer of moon on a dark cloudy night
which restores faith that in sometime there will be a clear sky.
Or, just a faint known fragrance of a forgotten memory that lights up the whole mood.
Maybe a clover leaf you find on a sunday morning walk and wish for love.
So maybe a thing that you put in a drawer and not want to part ways.

-

Places, different connotation for everyone. People travel to different places and I see them thrive, relax, become a different person altogether. I see them marvelling, eyes getting bigger with each mile, taking in desperately whatever new there is...like they can't get enough or it ll be left behind, they take million pictures as a reminder, these places, and travellers are my fav people. Cause these places allow one to become who they want to be, not altering, judging or turning them. No filters, no boundaries, pretensions. No NEED TO BELONG. I guess much like our primitive species, we also enjoy our freedom. We may pretend we like safety, security, some place we call our home. But, in reality, all we want is freedom to be wherever, whenever. We become scared when we reach home, acting different roles, maintaining ourself.
Every revolution we witness is a cry to break free. Travel to places we want to be.

-

In your arms, I don't feel scared.
In your arms, there's no rush to be anywhere.
In your arms, everything fits, I fit.
In your arms, everything is standstill.
In your arms, there's no time.
In your arms, there's a forever.

That means,
We get to be with each other forever, somewhere.

-

Evenings, his hair looked most ruffled,
Pleasant breeze, his smile most loving,
the way she liked, at ease.
In the mornings
Crisp hair, he preferred,
Curt and cold like winters,
Always in hurry to be at some place.
Funny , she mused.
As a child, she saw people often,
were in hurry to go one place and one place only,
Home, they'd call it.
To the people they love, their own.
The books also said, "smells like home", the words she had read once on stairs.
And, she had wondered then,
What is home ? a place where you live,
a refuge, four walls, or a place where you are born?
For her,
His arms had always been a place, she felt most alive in,
His strong arms, her refuge.
The walls bore witness to the thousand things they'd talked about.
She didn't know where she was born, neither she wanted to know.
He was her home, had always been.
The place where she was always running to;
the one she love and loved.
Then,
One cold morning,
He was again, setting his hair crisp,
She rolled her eyes, unsettling,
had asked innocently, where was he always running to?,
"Home", he had said.

- Akansha

-

The orange of the sky,
between sunset and sunrise.
The now of the time,
between then and later.
The glimmer of light,
between shadows and flames.

The drop of water,
between barren and ocean.
The smile on face,
between sad and laughter.
The clarity of moment,
between known and unknown.

The star of north,
between dark and northern lights.
The calm of the day,
between labour of morning and night.
The freckle of imagination,
between dream and reality.

The suffering of longing,
between love and hate.
The stagnation,
between cessation and flow.
The tragedy,
between comedy and romance.

The "US",
between and him and I.
With him, she's always afloat,
between drowning and swimming.
But, in the end she knows,
She must swim.

-

Couldn't do it herself.
She kept giving pieces of her
to others.
For, destruction was her virtue.

-

Her mental alarm was ringing too damn high.
"Do not...
Do NOT...
Do not get attached."
But her senses had given up the minute he walked into her life.

-

Accused of betrayal,
She has been called a COLD-hearted person,
Till now she was the most lovable one.
Had she not told her true feelings,
She'd never be called so.

Walking away is never easy,
It may seem so, but isn't.
It comes with a never ending guilt of hurting someone,
Consequences: sleepless nights and dry tears.
She did not know all this before.

She loved truly, with her whole heart,
But the definition changed.
She may never be looked upon with same eyes,
Had she not told her true feelings,
Her love would not have been called profane.

Accused of Betrayal,
She has been called a COLD-hearted person.

-

Love, a painful death,
of her passions so big,
Made her a corpse,
with laughter,
still left in her lungs.

-

You will always be my
epiphany of love.

-