My Tabletop Cards

By Akansha Bhattacharjee

If what could've been,

Had what should’ve been,

It might’ve been,

A corporeal evidence to what the cards said;

On my table top 

Satin cloth. 

If questions weren’t a thing;

I would’ve said what I’ve always wanted to. 

Maybe then you would've stayed. 

But the crowded stations never discussed your name,

Begging of a rich soul that never learnt to pray. 

As if blasphemy would burn me down,

The cruelty of Gods to be just,

Snatching away all my crowns. 

Letting me run for as long as I wanted to,

In the end, all just to resent meeting you.

To give in or to run opposite to you is the question. 

But like my God, I see you in every state,

Every leaf, every dew, every lightning,

Every thunder, every speckle of dust,

Every visage, every mirror, 

Like you are what my World is made of. 

You think you’ve got the rights,

To unveil my thoughts since you’re close. 

But in every syllable I write,

In every thought behind my prose,

The secret flame, unbeknownst to you, is alive. 

All six of my cups are aligned. 

My best friend screaming,

All I see is you running,

The whiplash of a toy train whistling. 

Give me your arms like the design

God made to hold my broken chest’s sigh. 

Frantic palms reading books, 

Did I miss it?

The steps of your dance. 

Falsity in all your hooks,

I need my answers now,

All I have is one chance. 

The art of writing my stories;

Mystique masquerading melancholic memories,

Can I be all that I need to reach you?

A crazy form for glories,

Obliterating empires painting my skies a bloody hue. 

Now my cups are ten,

I enclose my cards in your den,

Calling at the star of your name,

Wishing ‘all’s well that ends well’

Crying on my Table top,

Satin cloth.  

By Akansha Bhattacharjee