Love language and other poems by Shrutee Choudhary



Love language


When I was all of nine, I met a boy for the very first time. It was the pure affection, his borderline obsession, his peculiar antics and the preference of my company over anyone else’s during playtime, that made me adore him. In my limited vocabulary, I told him that I loved him. In his tongue-tied demeanour, he


ran.


And years later, when I found poetry, I also found you.

We used to kiss in rhymes, then make love in free-verses. I described your smile as incandescent and being next to you as sublime, but I guess it was a writer’s curse — to be left behind.


When you no longer graced my crumpled white sheets, I tore you apart, like a badly written first draft.


It’s been years since I spoke our language, the one we had invented accidentally, in our serendipitous collision. I honed my skills in different ones instead. French, Spanish, Hindi. I am some sort of a wordsmith in English now, yet I remain most fluent in your ways —


the language of your body, your mind, your curls, your smile, your gaze


I love you

so much still

in spiralling soliloquies

in long winding sentences

and even longer paragraphs


which then turns into

never-ending books, written entirely

in the language

of your absence.


The impermanence of permanence


I took no pictures tonight

and I, am all about capturing

those fleeting moments.


but one look at you

and I saw a striking comet —

made entirely out of possibilities.


I even dared to hope

I even dared to dream.


your presence nurtured something neglected inside, parts of my heart that hadn’t been tended to, in a while.


one look at you

and I wanted to seek home

in your arms.


and I imagined us

continuing to be us for years to come.

I dared think about


a permanent kind of love.


but one look at you

and I knew, even forever

would fall short.


as words do right now.


Jharokha (stone window)


I was never a princess

being held captive in a

mysterious tall tower

deep in the woods


but I was indeed a

woman, trapped

behind walls

of her own making


a few bricks did fall

to the ground

briefly, when you’d

come around


and then

the visits

stopped


(my heart stopped)


and I sat at the windowsill

day after day, cracking at my brim,

at each crack of dawn,

waiting still —


and what were once the windows

to my soul, my eyes,

they slowly

turned to stone


only nobody could see

through me.

 

Shrutee Choudhary is an actor, a confessional poet and an author of two poetry collections. She likes to read, travel and tell stories through every possible medium.


You can follow her on Instagram for more of her writings.



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