The sky is a sleeping sea; blessed
with more hues than blue.
I wrote to the unseen wave
that carried the scent of your hair,
washed in rose water, to diffuse slowly and subtly
in this sea of your living memory.
Many poems disappeared since then
eloping with the memories of yours
carried away by these voiceless waves.

The Balcony used to honeysuckles
that bloomed in late-spring, the salt-laden air,
and the noise of impatient seagulls is now
a desolated and unfinished memoir of our time.
I have lost the count of the number of times
my syllables rearrange in these crimson evenings
to whisper your name.
It’s an unending charade to dwell in the past.
but no options satisfy my desire to smell joy
and laughter one last time.

If I could walk into my past tonight,
by drowning myself in a storm near the shore
till my present just wears off somehow.
I would, for you.
Even a thousand times over.

© Shashank Bhardwaj