There were reasons.
These walls smelled of you,
The little sparrows lost their way.
A graveyard of flowers,
withered in silence.
Everything you touched,
had turned into an insoluble memory.
So I held my syllables,
I forgave the explanations.
I forgot the time.
For, If I whispered,
it will all be true.
You will be gone.
You will become something,
I cannot comprehend.
The absence will become an image.
For which, I believe,
I am not ready.
No one could ever be.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
It’s the driest summer,
the toes do not talk to each other.
The sweat arches its voyage
through the moulded shoulders.
Every moment is a warm echo,
a syllable whispered out by a black tongue.
I drink the silence out of your lips
and my capillaries soak some fire.
Your hands are a paradox of existence,
that decipher my purpose slowly.
Take me to your darkest room,
turn me into a memory
that resurfaces every time
when you close your eyes.
Make me a rain,
that wipes a summer away.
A rain, in which you slowly cried.
This cessation from reality
is obvious but necessary too.
Like your love once was,
When I was your crimson sky.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
a crimson sky,
a blue horizon,
a careless troupe of albatrosses, yawning.
A voiceless master of the puppets,
feeding the salt in the air to its children.
an ownerless horse dreaming of grasslands,
a dog treading the unending shores,
a graveyard of the sand-castles,
without tombstones.
All patiently wait for the sunset.
It stays, I believe,
within each one of us.
One of the few things, the death
allows us to take with us.
Did you ever notice?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
It is summer already
so unhook your bra,
and melt while lying over me,
I shall drink your existence,
and caress the water,
you leave over,
Till the winter comes.
Waves, the grieving mothers:
always keep coming back to the shores.
With a hope of being embraced
and held forever.
Alas!
But all I see is their exodus
beneath the beautiful crimson sky,
with salt in my breath,
and their unseen teary eyes.
They say, the sound of the ocean is lovely.
But what if it is a humongous melody of lament
conjured from the longing for its shores?
A homonym for the humans
wrapped in nature’s plight.
A dream fed to me
by the silence of the night.
A memory so wrong,
it now seems right.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
With your laced clothing,
you resplend an aura
that smells of lust and raging whiskey,
the ice fed hands trace your fragile
and sensitive breasts, as you unhook your bra.
With my warm tongue, I lick the chocolate over your pointed nipples.
You caress your fingers with the water between your legs.
I tear away your black panties,
and I am sure you wished for the sooner of it.
I come inside you, inside us
as we tremble as terrified horses
riding in the storm, embracing and feasting
on one another.
Your hips turn warm,
The legs go tired,
we climax in each other arms
and wait to begin again,
in the sunlight, we escaped from.
How hard would it be
to be made of flesh and be mortal,
to dream of all the tastes,
and go wet uncontrollably.
To lick your mirror image
in her mouth slowly,
and be satisfied in sometime,
but still, lack a dearth of reason,
to entwine
into a thousand unseen motions,
to caress the nothingness in air
and become understood in front
of all the living.
to be a tongue,
and be a language
and exist
but not noticed
ever.
How hard would it be?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 