Tremble

I tremble,
when your words hold me with the tip of their fingers,
as if one day they’d let me sleep on their palms
or let me keep my head on their fingernails
or catch my metaphors when they tumble down my lashes.

I tremble,
when your words hold me with the tip of their fingers,
as if they would fracture my branches
or tie the withered flowers to my body
or unrhyme the poetry that I have scribbled on my skin.

I tremble,
when your words hold me with the tip of their fingers,
as if they’re capable of doing everything to me,
or undo everything that has been done
or choose to do nothing at all.

I tremble,
Not because your words have too much power,
but because I have nothing,
when they hold me with the tip of their fingers.

 

Poetry by Eshwarya Khanna

Photography by Arif Khan

WhatsApp Image 2017-07-03 at 23.54.58

 

 

Wither and Wilt

They will tell you that flowers look beautiful only when they are blooming in the garden in your backyard. But let me tell you something that nobody ever will; flowers look beautiful even when they forget to blossom, or don’t stay amidst other floral beings.

Just like you, Aayat.

So, if such a day comes, and you feel that the garden isn’t where you belong, don’t be afraid to walk away. And if life seems too rough and harsh, unlearn the art of blooming; wither and wilt, darling. Because you will always be beautiful, no matter where you stand and no matter how sad you are.

Eshwarya Khanna 

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Picture Credits: Aashna Sharma