One Wild Night, She Fled From My Sight,

One wild night, she fled from my sight,

just some minutes after we had our fight.

My heart sped up, like it always did,

I searched every corner, she possibly hid.

But every search came to an end so dead,

I regretted every syllable I said.

I wondered why she'd fight me that way,

I put my heart, like hundred times on display.

She hated how I always gazed at the stars,

and talked about Saturn, Pluto and Mars.

For her my interests were awfully vague,

what I could see through, she found opaque.

We were those companions, poles apart,

but despite all odds, she had my heart.

Who is going to give her, this information,

that I was carving a way in the constellation.

So I could find her after death, when she 'n I,

as stars gets located, far up in the sky.

Well now I see, she is no cosmic poetry,

When dead, she'd probably be buried under a tree.

COSMIC POETRY, Vanshika Singh

A few years back, one of my father's friend was diagnosed with cancer. The news had all shattered. His friend eventually succumbed to the disease. When all his friends including my father went to attend his last rites, his mother burst into tears because she had never seen the friends group without her son. She did not look at them as different people, but a single unit, which looked distorted due to her son's absense. Years have passed, but my father and his other friends still calls up, every month, like a ritual, his dead friend's mother to ask if she is fine, or if she needs something. The family performed his last rituals, but the friends are performing his life's rituals. I have not seen a purer friendship.

This instance makes me feel friendship is beyond a person, beyond physical attendance. Somewhere in the roads of an eternal relationship, where loyalty rests till the last breath is taken. To aspire in friendship, to be together at the death bed. People eventually go, with or without choice, but the friendship always stays. And if it doesn't, it was not worth calling friendship. I want to be this kind of friend, and have this kind of them.

-2nd February, 2022

Familiarity like the back of my hand,

to foreignness like a distant country.

A long path.

A quick journey.

-Vanshika Singh

"I don't know what to do with all the adoration I store inside for people around me!"

"Tell them! They'd feel good."

I shook my head, "That's not like me."

"Then what is like you?"

"Writing ambiguous symbolic poetries about them, that they barely understand. And feel smug about their obliviousness."

The first funeral of mine

was back when I was still a kid

and lost a favourite human

not to death, but estrangement.

Since then I have been dying frequently

and being born again soon after

because with time, my body

my heart and my soul

have mastered the art

of shedding off the dust

and walking on like nothing happened.

I have attended like

my own thousands funerals

but still have the audacity

to fear dying.

I wish this was normal

as normal as dying

has been for me.

FIRST FUNERAL OF MINE- Vanshika Singh

I've felt like the weight of this world

was lifted off my shoulders.

When I uttered those massless words

at that moment when I was bolder.

You ask me why I had it inside

why didn't I speak up before?

Am I being vocal from now on

and decide to hide no more?

It feels nice being unmute

but once in a while, I think.

The weight of the world has forced me

to draw it into words by my ink.

UNMUTE- Vanshika Singh