With you in my arms, I think of only
poetry curving in on tongues, then pages, then entire landscapes of bodies
that grow into war fields of words,
every weapon a stuck syllable that eats into the insides of being:
how do I say it all to you?
Do I say it all to you?
With you in my arms, poetry comes easy, I like to think.
I call you both the Muse and the Maker, your breath
writes in different fonts across my skin
and I don’t know if I’m the poet or the poem.
This is bound to happen, isn’t it, with a work of art?
Is this how we create art, then-
by holding the people we love in our arms
and hoping that something will come from this union,
something tangible, a poem, a photograph, a little locket of love
that will stand as a reminder of hope
in all the times to come.
With you in my arms,
I feel the need to create something eternal
as much as to create something only meant for this moment.
How does one then deal
with this feeling of passing-ness?
How does one write it down?
How does one make poetry
of an empty, empty feeling?
We can write it down as our favourite words, I guess,
is as much a favourite
and I hate choosing.
Although, with you in my arms,
it is a bad idea to pick ‘carrots’.
I risk sounding like a creep with everything I say,
any which way.
Written by Swastika Jajoo
Image by Stuti Pachisia