Yes, I Like
By: Veerangana Praniti
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yes, I like golden, local-fair, glass bangles-- the kind with gleaming paints, glitter-coated, for they assure me, that wet, dark shadows are not the legacy of all of humankind and some leave glittery trails and footprints of shine and shimmer upon the ground on which they tread yes, I like crumpled letters-- crumpled so much, that it seems as though the handwritten letters are scrunched into azure bruises, the boundaries of which I cannot decipher, but nevertheless I am a prying cardiologist I shall not rest, till I touch the core of these letters, which pulsates like a curling sliver of warm sunshine amidst these layers of pain that have been stitched from the frosty threads of bluing emotion and when I get to this core, the heart of these letters I shall operate on it, tear it apart, see what’s inside and finally stitch it so hard, with the tightest threads so that what’s inside, stays inside yes, I like winter skies-- that linger overhead, like a new bride donning silken veils of fog and frost over the moon, which is a single breast protruding from the chest of the sky as I watch the wind softly whimper to the sky, like a doting mother teaching the sky, to negotiate boundaries with her breasts yes, I like crumpling leaves-- rubbed along the edges with the coppery colors of that evening, when father left a day that I’d seize in my bare hands place on my fingers and spiral it around like a purple, childhood top till it transforms into a blurry, starry, sunlit mess and then, I’d observe imprints of that day rainbow-shaped footprints, shape shifting into nothingness on this quivering autumn leaf, breathless under the weight of old, rusting seasons yes, I like long conversations-- played to the rhythm of falling rain about coffee shops and fragrant walls about long walks and fairy hide-outs possibly lurking beneath your footprints that one footprint which twists and turns still finding its space on the wet mud, possibly lost between what’s yours, what’s mine, frantically questing for what’s ours about poetry I hold tight in the centre of my palm-- so much so, it leaves a shapeless imprint on the flushed canvas of my skin and when I attempt to decipher the shapes it may hold it speaks to me, and says in an ice-cold voice, that it isn’t here to be understood about poetry I bring close, to the tip of my tongue, and inhale the saltiness of the first snowflake the reluctant sweetness of rain, the sudden spice of autumn, the sugary-coats of spring about poetry that shows, about poetry that tastes about poetry that scents about poetry that remains |
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Writer's Statement: I am a sixteen-year-old girl, who aspires to become a full-time writer one day!