The city lights of November,
after walking you home —
I will remember them,
As much as I’d like to forget.
It never stopped raining,
Never.
Continuum
Category Archives: creative-writing
Forever
To write about you,
Is it to dream about a song.
The humming of your voice
Is a symphony sometimes.
Do you see my heart dancing
In all the flames you set within me?
Do you feel the warmth that brews
within me, as the echo of your voice
slithers into my soul.
If you are the music,
then teach me to dance,
alone, unapologetically, forever.
Just once.
Rehearsal of Loss
float sublimely,
for there is no ground beneath the toes today.
The white verandah delves a sight
as you move untouched eclipsed by warm fingertips.
the water shall soon forget itself,
it has no memory of your existence.
White voids and bright wine.
melanchony’s cocktail : a melodious blur
beneath a bright but dusty chandelier,
We have nothing to break
our silence escaped through the white windows.
we retire,
listening to the winds
and sipping some wine,
rehearsing
our exits from one-another,
our exits from ourselves,
our exits from our pasts.
Warm
Her whispers turned into subtle moans.
The breathe turned warmer and warmer.
Her nails dug deep into the back.
As each inch of the curve is felt by bare cold hands.
She just cannot wait for the climax now.
The lust will spread within her,
With every thrust.
This will be the end and beginning
of the wet warm climax she deserves.
Shashank Bhardwaj
Relapse
It has been a long time since I have penned down something quite originial in this blog. There has been a lot of thoughts that have been going through my head seeing this world change. There is an uneasiness as to how things are unfolding, I have started my shift from poetry to non-fiction writings. Now I am trying my best to craft them into comprehensible and readable thoughts worth pondering upon. Its time to relapse to writing again. Time to end the drought.
Meanwhile here is the picture of some recently brought books.
Shashank Bhardwaj
Eden
A red sky,
dissolves in blue
the sun’s hue
turns to a dripped nectar.
The leaves do not wither,
The soil is never dry.
The air smells like
someone I knew,
It was a dream,
too good to be true.
Part One
It had just rained last night.
You called me twice
You came to my garden in that linen white shirt 2 in the night.
The ground was wet, will stones blooming and cursing our toes.
The plants were drenched in a smell of petrichor.
You should not have wore the white shirt
and shown me those breasts wet and erect.
Our lips drew wars for blood, the tongues wrestled for saliva and hands traced every inch.
We forgot the stones, as if pain was an asylum
those were not the leisurely moans, I felt the trembling back but you hands made me swallow.
A bite on the bosoms and you turned into an animal, taking my hands inside the shirt
Neighbours were asleep, they wish they wouldn’t.
My hands helped you with touch as you stroked me so well,the hands moving over the warm breasts, turned cold and wet from the rain
The touch moves as you let out a moan.
Writings to Heaven 