Every tiny strand of this miniscule breeze
rummages through my bones, whispering voicelessly to drown in the unknown.
The kiss of light, is a birth of a memory.
The movement of tongue, is a voice of a dream
The feel of fingertips, is a breath never tasted.
Tell me how to forget all of them
and still exist, like a night without a moon.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
You wear a skin of butterfly bush,
and bathe in a pond of musk,
a dark ocean slithers in your eyes,
with a breeze of warmth trespassing
flesh and bones.
An elixir of forgetfulness drips by the lips,
while potent desire brews on the tongue,
I sometimes wonder what your voice could do,
in the dark?
The collarbone is a carved symphony
with a pleasant hymn in the rain nights,
Have you ever touched something
and not see it melt and sublimate at the same time,
I feel sorry for your neck, for it is a sublime echo of loneliness,
awaiting a cold drizzle that drips to your waist slowly.
Your hands do not forget your love,
they leave imprints on fleshes of those very lucky.
Well I don’t believe in luck.
I believe in writing about them with my bare hands.
What about you?
– SB
The tongue is heartless servant, it slithers on your neck and lips, like a snake devoid of warm flesh, I feel the warmth and the tremble in cleavage, but I am cursed as in eden.
It smothers the bra slowly, peeking within satanic eyes, the warmth is a thirst for a thing made of out flesh, it multiples while inside, caressing, pressing, Disappearing with eyes,
Your breath is a kiss of blaze burning and I was a winter worth nurturing with hands choking my existence
The breasts caressed slowly, into a tumultuous moment of touch, I trace the tips to its origin, feeling them erect and ready for to pleased, unhook now and lie down, let me taste the eden before being banished forever.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
I kiss every sparkle of light
with my dark pupils:
A river smelling of forgotten touches
can only be cold,
my blood can only hold a limit of warmth
in every dream,
A little more
and my heart shall melt,
like the sun who devoured fire,
just to forget,
the kiss of the seas.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
It is quite obvious,
The way your tongue will feel
while reading this title:
slithering itself in a wet void.
Your nose now dreams of a petrichor,
The toes shall yearn for the wet grass.
Fingertips aching to scratch the moss
of the exiled pebbles somewhere,
How just a few words,
could tease your senses.
Yet you use a picture to interpolate
your creations
Why?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
A memory of your smell :
an enslavement, so clandestine.
It tunes my arteries to sing,
like the waves sing,
for purposes unknown.
I ebb away ,from this nonchalant madness
and turn into a moon-kissed star dust
wishing there were no sun or stars,
Cause I now abhor the lick of light.
It separates us unknowingly.
How come I still dream of you again?
At what cost?
At what price?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
I wanted to be real,
To be a rain in winters,
Whom they cannot despise,
love or forget,
to be a chaotic origin of resentment,
mysterious, magical and everything in between
and beyond.
I was a tofu once,
my liver poisoned by
daily savouring of pure alcohol of dreams,
It didn’t kill me then,
It didn’t kill me now.
Bring your hands and choke
the light within me,
Turn me into a grass spilled with fresh soaked blood,
turn me into a a galaxy of restlessness
with kisses of pause and serenity eloping madness.
I shall write all about it.
Till your eyes melt in dreams of forgetting me,
Again and again,
every night
You poor, dreamer of death.
Writings to Heaven 