April by Mayukh Dutta
something tells me that April is for prefaces
to write beginnings without apologies
to erase the lines drawn without a ruler,
I am no saint, yet all saints I know have sinned
I am no artist, yet no artist did ever need a scale,
they say I am a potholed highway
journeys in me often end in crashes
yet they take my deserted oblivion
and reject the placid boulevards,
it's only in April that I can convince people
that my potholes aren't fatal
and the unwrinkled roads are a sham
that my speed-breakers are not trouble
but to reject trouble that I can't.
April is for trials
my soul on the courtroom's stand
the prosecutor a crafty liar
the defense absent to make its claims,
and so these speed-breakers and potholes
become pointless evidence that my heart exists
and all witnesses have derailed in due process
I stand as a defendant at a blind jury's mercy
and these laws cornered in the dark
I can never prove my innocence
for those born in April
die from the speed-breakers in their hearts.
Love Becomes a Memory in the Blink of an Eye by Khatija Khan
ours is the only planet with life and love is
oxygen holding hands with hydrogen.
hearts are kept in rib cages and love is
the most wanted thief stealing them in minutes.
sometimes love is a century-old novel.
it feels new every time you read it.
sometimes you may think of it softly but you would want to cut your hand before reaching for it.
what i mean is
love is omnipresent and omnipotent,
like a goddess
but before you find her, see her, touch her,
she leaves.
what i mean is
love becomes a memory
in the blink of an eye.
so i have built speed breakers in my heart
for i want love to be slow with me.
i want love to sit with me for hours and then
tell me "take your time".
i want love to weep in my arms, before
eating my eyeballs.
i want love to have my back, before
deciding never to look back.
i want love to hold me still, before
ripping me to bone.
i want love to wait, rest, let me paint its picture in my mind, before becoming a souvenir that no one remembers.