I am,
Slowly fading away,
Gathering
The last dreg of the day,
Lying broken
On my bare feet.
One day,
If I forget
How to transform
Sleepless tears
Into poems,
Would you miss me
And go through the lines
I wrote for you,
On a quiet, quiet night?
It’s been long
Since the wall clock
Of my room
Has stopped.
I didn’t want to change the batteries though
Time froze there.
And stopped,
And cried with me.
The ticking sound
And the what-ifs,
They saw me staring blankly
At the white ceiling.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
The missed punctuations
And soliloquy.
Nobody is going to hold
And heal them.
Somewhere,
They melted into
The broken chandelier
Behind my back.
One night,
I didn’t find them anymore
On my bedside table.
I don’t blame them.
Instead,
I walked out
To get a glass of water.
I knew,
Tonight
The snifter,
Broken,
Would melt into the broken chandelier
Too,
And
I would be waking up
At the tune
Of the midnight lullaby
Of a broken violin.
All art is quite useless.
And broken,
Like us,
Humans.
Nisarga Sinha is an amateur poet from India. She writes because sometimes thoughts can be suffocating and little things intrigue her. When she is not writing, she is reading fanfictions or pretending to sleep while she clearly can’t and daydreaming. Her poems have been published on Marías at Sampaguitas. You can find her on Twitter as @nisarga_sinha.
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