Glitch.

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