By Vidhutma Singhania
My days have been insignificant.
I’ve forgotten how to feel.
Every day, my skin feels less mine,
my breath, more incoherent.
I don’t watch anything
rather gaze into an abyss
present everywhere,
right in front of me.
The crease on my forehead
has become its
permanent resident.
I’m merely a bag
of flesh, muscle & bones,
and a few metal scrapes here & there.
It is only past midnight
when the silence
between the four walls consumes me,
I am able to relive
a few leftover traces
of human emotion that’s concrete.
That’s when I find myself standing in a meadow
on a warm spring day,
plucking the most peculiar flowers of them all.
I find myself dancing to
some of my most guilty pleasures,
singing at the top of my lungs.
I find myself completely consumed
with the thought of your hands in mine.
Remembering how electric it felt the first time
and the time after that,
and the time after that,
and the billion times we held hands after that.
Yet, each one of these emotions
remains a thought,
like the ghost
of its physical form.
Something like it
but, not quite it.
A reminiscent.
A glitch.
By Vidhutma Singhania
😘😘😘😘😘