Ink on Fingertips

By Tanushree Kar

The pearl dropped on the creme page

Ink stained my fingertips.

I forced the thoughts out of my head

But they rooted deep in my soul's grief.

I am a writer, my words are meant to create.

But my harp refuses to weave music

My rhythm posed a denial to oscillate.

Frustration crept in like a sin

I tore pages like a maniac

Burnt them to cinders of amber.

The fragments of my lost poetry still stayed

Inadequacy stabbed like a dagger.

I didn't know what to feel

Cause what I felt was not what I wanted to feel.

I couldn't decipher between right and wrong.

Between the illusions of existence—

The glass and real.

It felt as if I were doomed

To meet death cradled in a sleek sheet of silk

But rather I saw her soft smile

Embrace warm as a winter's quilt.

The forgotten notes found it's harmony,

As I birthed tales of amour and passion.

I had lost my psyche in the abyss,

She crafted it back with threads of gold

Back into my lifeless framework of bones.

Now I don't stare at blank pages.

The ink never dries on my fingertips.

I inhale her scent and forge them into poems

Like the earth sculpts her eclipse.

By Tanushree Kar