Making It

Restart, restart, restart
I’ve lost count — I’m looking up at the stars
When did they begin, how long will they last
Far longer than you or I or us
What a joke that we compare
Our love to constellations when
We don’t know if we will make it to
Dinner next Thursday

Getting high was an easier way to say
“I love you” and mean it
We taste colors, we paint the skies with our imagined futures
Psychedelic sounds made up but you saying
Goodbye was a blow, softened, when you
Said you loved me before you made your way home

Home. Home, a word, a made up word —
I always find myself alone
When you make your way home
I hear the crackle of my heart — I have long since
Learnt it is more bone than flesh
Break, rip, tear — the mending takes longer
Now that I have known what it is to kiss you.

This poem has no meaning for anyone but you and I.
Is it even a poem — is anything more literary
Than this silent love story of secrets and wishes
A permanence on paper, a permanence in our minds —
A lonely bubble in the sands of our crime

All I want is to make you mine even
When I’m just the girl you fuck when you have free time

We both know that isn’t true but on days
When I can’t wake up to you
I am ugly and crude
Shaking off the blues and telling myself to
Restart, restart, restart…

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After a lot of creative lamenting, Arjun Mohan and I have decided to hold ourselves accountable for writing everyday. We take turns giving each other a prompt, and we have 24 hours to write using it. This is #3

Today’s prompts have been used in the story in bold and we were also given the option to use the prompt in poetry form.

VERY rusty writing after a very long time. The hope is to stick to it and to find the familiar ease.