World of ours

I often wondered if we all do find our The One?

I did not know until my simple eyes, amidst all the normality and mediocrity, stumbled upon you — another boy with flesh and bones, little conserved and lost with  sharp, demonic eyes. But that’s what your appearance was like. From the inside, it was flavoured with fun, wit, and a cosmic of love. But above all, it was your kindness — the truest form of beautiful.

People break hearts when they see no other way to express love.  A mistake made once is a mistake, but twice is a choice. And I have made my choice.

The regrets and little questions of the past decisions will always be there inside our hearts, and we can never pluck it off our heart. I wouldn’t want to either, for I want them to be there as a reminder of everything that has gone wrong, so you and I — us — can make everything right in the possible future.

I cannot promise that I will not break your heart ever, for I am a girl who is here to commit mistakes, but I will make sure I heal it.

There is a thin difference between wandering and lost. And, I have always wandered in your eyes, and then, one fine morning, I lost my way. But, for how long can a girl stray in the rocky paths or find peace in motels? A person always has to come back home, and if not, it has to find one. I have a home, once again, and in the same eyes.

How different you and I would have been if I hadn’t called on your bday or  if I hadn’t texted you that long message, I wonder? Would our nights be still lonesome and our pain covered with the little, damaged smiles? I now know, Time likes to play games and hint us, so we can place the lost pieces back in its place. And Time does it when it knows things are supposed to happen. So I wouldn’t thank the gods or the people, but you and I, for making a decision and writing our own story further.

We have built the past, the middle, and now we have to build an end. So, let’s dream and conquer what belongs to us — you over me, and I upon you.
Let me be in a love where I am a stranger to my hands, and I do not notice them slipping inside my pockets. Let me write poems to you, so you will be aware of every touch you have between your legs.
Wonder what my choice is? You. I am going to build a home around you — brick by brick — for you are what I am passionate about. And my heart sings for writing, so I will write about you — sometimes to you, sometimes to the world.

I can never give up on you lazy insaan!

xoxo
Gossip Girl

You and I

This magic you have cast
On me,
Has left me gasping
For reality,

For a sense
Of understanding
Of the ways of the world.
Your spell has left me
Feeling your fragrance,
Seeing your voice
Float in the air,
Feel your sight on me,
And smell your touch
As it outlines my scars!

Oh you beautiful heart,
A scorer in your
Own right,
Like they say in words
Full of wisdom and fame…
You make my name
Sound like a chant
To summon some dark force.

Destroy me
In your embrace,
Engulf my world
In the flames of your love.
I’ll die a thousand deaths
Every single time
I drink
The sweet venom
From your lips.

xoxo
Gossip Girl

For we are friends and storm will come.

When we are being friends and i intend to expect more from you, kick my ass and drop me down. For we are friends and it's a game of cards.

When we are texting late at night, and you feel sleepy, go to sleep. For we are friends and we don't have reasons to stay up.

When i accidentally touches your hand and a cold thrill rushes up and down inside , please pinch me cause we are friends and i'm not in position to see daydreams.

 When we are so drunk that we can't even find our way home, ask me to drop you. For we are friends and nothing would go wrong. 

When I'm finding constellations in your freckles, tell me to stop. For we are friends and we are hovering over the blurred line where galaxies collide. And we don't want a collision, do we?

When our eyes meet a glimpse at an instant in the hallway, look away dear. For we are friends and no staring games are allowed in here. 

When you are looking at me with those starry eyes and you feel that I've dived deep in them, pull me up. For we are friends and I don't know how to swim.

When you think, the heart is toying with you, tell me. For we are friends, and a fragile thread is between us, or the friendship is a house of cards it won't stand the storm which will come.

For love is a gentle wind and we live in a house of cards. We can't survive it.

Dear, honey, long distance correspondences, kindling tinder, terrible poetry, unsinkable ships and anchors, doodles and hearts, jingles and hums, back of the mind, out of the world.

Beaches, pine trees, beverages, tousled hair, slipping sleeves, lipstick stains, glitter, candid shots at exotic locations, whispers, laughter and two straws in a single Starbucks. Insta-love.

Comets, twilight, heartbeats, ineffable memories, portals, black holes, the cosmos, rain, rust and stardust. Pitch black, caverns, demons and wings, eternal inferno.

Forbidden, reckless love, star-crossed, electric, blurry vision, head-over-heels, collapsing walls and waterfalls, thunder bolts, whirlwinds, tangled hair, sweet apologies, wet tongues, wings, moths to flame.

Unsaid words, hearts on sleeves, broken glass, scars waiting to be caressed, smoke and needles, tripping toes and tears, ribcages and skulls, pain, running makeup, broken nails, blades and blood, emptiness, lost identities, needy longing, blacks, blues and greys, stitches, clocks, infinity, pitch black.

Vertigo, nausea, perspiration, déjà vu, sleep, dreams, abandonment, warriors and saviours, lies and bitter truths, driving through pitch black tunnels, reemerging on quiet highways, worn soundtracks, wind in the face, soaring wings.

Overhanging bridges in windows, lazy mornings beneath the sheets, hills behind thick mist, strolls, morning dew, dandelions, wind in the face, sun setting the hair ablaze, moist pecks.

Overreaching branches, blossoms, nectar, roses and petals, rustling leaves, the hues of autumn and spring, desolate fields, whiffs of fragrances, horizon kisses.

Solitary passages, unspoken things, sideway glances, stolen glimpses, edging closer, brushing fingers, dimples, ruffling hair, butterflies.

Satins and silks, melting candles, spells, craving touches, edgy twitches, leaning in, sighs in the eardrums, creaking beds, fervent shadows and locked doors.

Crescent moons and fishing hooks, bay windows, lazy morning beneath sheets, reciting poetry, dog eared pages, marginalia, sad movies, hopeless romances, timeless sitcoms, floating feathers, rain pattered windows, rhythms, interlinked fingers and the warmth of naked bodies.

 When one genuinely feels something, you can see it. But if anyone ever had to try too hard put it in perfect words, it fled them the moment they did, so what’s most effortless is what’s closest to home.

Modern young poets try too hard to be romantic. Romantics are conceited, they seek to reflect their virtuous outlook on life and garner admiration through praise of ‘beauty’. They are gript with a need to adorn beauty with words that do little justice.

Here’s a fresh perspective.

Walt Whitman’s, A Glimpse:

A glimpse through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner,
Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,
A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.

How beautiful that he makes the feeling reverberate with you without once using any of the words from the beginning of this article. He doesn’t alienate love from the hustle of life- it partakes in an earthly harmony. Its origins aren’t in castles in the sky but in the commonplaces of life, one doesn’t encounter it at junctures as love itself is the ship on voyage.

This isn’t a cry for novelty, but for perspective. So do not write about love until you’re capable of drawing from your own well, but if you do write to meet expectations, it’ll remain on paper, perhaps creative genius, but never touching.

Gossip Girl

Ankita Goyal