The other day when you told me that
You had ran out of the inspiration
To write anymore,
I stood holding the mirror in front of you
While you stood there,
Just blankly gazing at the shiny silver screen
Oblivious of how to search for something inspiring
In the scrapes of something so obvious.
I still stood there holding the mirror
Though the pain in my arms had now
Crawled up to the cliff of my shoulders.
I saw your riveting beauty across
The oceanic stretches of your mushy skin
The crevices that made imperfect turns and curves
The layers of hair that sat on the plateau of your shoulders,
Occasionally peeking in from behind the ears
Or even the plump lips of yours
With the tectonic cracks that flaunted the brown musk.
The inspiration sat hidden in between
The stretch marks and the stress marks
Inside the pimples or even
In between the chubby folds of your being.
My mom used to say when I stood in front of the mirror
Just like you are standing now, with a downward curve of your lips
And shoulders that are drooping at the lowest
That, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder
And now that she is long gone, I reciprocate her words to you, swapping beauty with inspiration.
The world remains the same, it's the perception that takes a leap,
Just like a story comes to life when told by a dramatic teller,
The usual springs to life when looked at with eyes searching for inspiration.

- Kavya Mukhija