creative-writing, fiction and poetry, Love, Poems, poetry

End

For every voiceless sigh
I can see you, teasing the warmth left
In your palpable heart.

Its like the song of welcoming an unknown winter,
Where we once breathed in unison,
under an orchid :
sharing lies to be forgotten, to exile each other
from the warm belonging.
Poured upon us , the drop of truths
still vehemently jealous
Of our lips, who patiently and mutely
remember the arch of touch.

How close we have been, today
This becoming,the voiceless drift.
A soft touch never spills secret.
It brews it.

If music is the cupid of love
Let it rehearse itself,
Till we forget the tunes

How does it feels to be soundless,
While sitting next to you,
is the beginning of the end
and end of the beginning.

– Shashank Bhardwaj

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creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love

Shipwreck

there is a searing in my chest
as I shed this skin of
nostalgia-laced prayers

the coldest night of the year falls
as I remember when I felt cold with you –

solemn breaths of the sea
heaving against a ragged coast

Irish rain drowning the countryside
with the aching vigor of an old god

the black trees that spoke of loneliness
cliffs cloaked in the seduction of solitude

gray castle walls climbing towards the sky,
encircling us in cold medieval stone

when I was with you I felt everything
until nothing was left

you left me with piles of driftwood
hinting at the shipwreck below

like redrawing constellations
you erased me from the sky,

I discard your cruel revisions
and bury our goodbyes

– Shashank Bhardwaj

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creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Poems, Poetry

Oblivion

The sleep drowns us,
but not our desires.
In a gist of cold air,
we hide our warmth teasing each other.
My hands trace your bare back,
I hear your subtle moans, that
travel from the waist and chin
kissing your warm breath.
I trace every curve, every tip,
every flesh warm enough for my hands.

I cup your breasts, caress them, lick their desires stirring them to a brewed memory,
The clothes slowly shed themselves to the floor.
I feel my hands tracing my chest,
My nails piercing your navel and going way below between your legs,
We won’t stop for we are unaware,
of where would we stop,
or how to,
or simply why.

You drag me into an oblivion
of warm madness.

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beauty, creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Tell me

What is it?
That draws a knife through the heart?
Is it the separation between them?
The anonymity brewing between them?
The pause of decisions?
The thousand veins that weigh down the feeble heart?
The slithering silver edges tasting of unforgotten dreams ?

You need to draw it once.
The curse of repetition
begins with an imperfect try.
Be brave enough,
Not for the blood,
Not for the teared arteries,
Not for the sun that never sets on
the red river for forgiveness.

But for the silence
That follows.

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beauty, creative-writing, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry

The Exalted Pursuits

To define an exit,
is to summon a purpose,
I defined snow, without touching it.
It has never left me since.

In the dreams,
under the sky robbed of stars,
in this utter disturbance of existence.
I wished you never painted me as a mosaic,
as well as I do.

My hands coloring with hues of autumn, winter
and unkissed summer,
because to fail you shall be the end of my potrait.
the symmetry in love is astounding.

Thousand touches on those brown eyes still unfelt
shall yield their numbness:
an art before departure,
a history before invasion.
a cause without a purpose.

This winter ends today
the glass panes conjure a colorful silence :
yellow, a touch of comfort,
when it travels back,
this premonition of forgetfulness
shall shine on you.

Lay these eyelids on purpose, today, at least
What is to be lost? Than a fickle dream
and city made of failed purposes
with us as the lone survivors,
building cities as we forget,
what is like to be loved,
without words.

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creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Poems, Poetry

Convalescence

An unsettling deciphers
a state of silence :
When every mirror sells illusion,
How can you trust a pair of dreamy eyes?

A stoic whimper,
A mist that smells like the sun,
A kiss that compels of it’s origin,
Carry all of them till the day of reckoning.

You never know, when you shall be healed,
A rebirth is just a meaningless smile away.
Isn’t it?

– Shashank Bhardwaj

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beauty, creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Touch

you are most beautiful
when you sleep–
when the coffee-toned notes of your skin
brew, a silent language

while your perfect lips are too tired to doubt my eyes
now, the dark mist of your breath
trickles down my neck
I wait,
I stare at you
unwaveringly.

outside there is a trail of rain,
and the wind
in the willow cage
whispers

as if it dares to tell
the moon and
all the listening night
that this silverlight should not
touch you, in front of me.

SB

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