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Kriti Gupta Nov 2019
Time and time again
I gave you reasons to say yes
All you had left in your heart
Was reasons to run left

You asked me for the truth
For months I held my heart
Til you said the words we’re hoping for
I said I love you yet
Kriti Gupta Sep 2019
is this time the charm?
tell me are we finally on a perfect path?
do we meet in the middle?
does your heart swell a little?
am I fitting your curtains once more?
On this again
Kriti Gupta Sep 2019
jumped back on a ride
worn breaks, broken ties
with a wheel left spinning
heart hanging out the side
They say having *** I’d like riding a bicycle, having *** with you is even better
Kriti Gupta Aug 2019
“I don’t know what we are”
We’re gray baby
Gray


k.g.
the innkeeper Aug 2019
That nameless spark
The one that starts in your diaphragm
you think it’s your breath,
but it gets stuck

Chest—hot
Breath—ragged
Heart—taiko beat

But you turned away...

“Didn’t want to start something”
You said

“Smart for you, sad for me”
I said

...Incompatible, I rationalized

What to do now?

Did we dodge a bullet?

Would your woundedness have moved
Through me and left a mark?

Your hesitation has.

“Everyone is complicated”
You told me after you kissed my neck

Do I stay soft?

Stay open?

I didn’t know when you said “everyone”
you meant yourself
Kriti Gupta Aug 2019
man if only i knew
what part of me
meant a part to you
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!

This has been poorly imagined I admit:
The sunny penthouse
Open to the breeze
which presses and sways
through the sliding glass doors

Upturned champagne bottles
set in buckets of melting ice
A crystalline view of the Pacific
Or dusky Vegas lights

Strewn silken sheets
A **** carpet you can grab on to
The myriad of variations under a rising Moon

Yet Leather and Ecstasy are no where to be seen.
And though I wasn’t thinking of Sardinia
or of the Amalfi
That is a great idea

ROMP
noun
1. a spell of rough, energetic play.
2. a farce.

Eventually
(An earth-sign cusp is slow no matter how much air)
Eventually
creeping into my mind’s eye
(Thank you Time)
was my dodging of the slow-moving bullet
Alas, the lumpy bed in Hollywood awaits
with serviceable sheets
Encased in variations on a theme of
brown everything
A soul death in faux wood paneling
Someone else’s earring on a
grubby carpet floor
that offers you
burns for your back that won’t heal so fast
if that’s what you want
There’s the opening of the door
on the purring refrigerator
to look at cold nothing
And think nothing
Cystitis is on its way
And yes,
Too much dust

Don’t get me wrong
I have no real issues with dust
I have stood
Alone in the semi darkness before
In such a living room
Staring at this luminous particulate
On album covers
and in the glare of backlit windows
Floating in a beam from
a ceramic thrift store table-lamp

I was on my way to find the bathroom
Where a pair of pink ******* lay
drying
in wait for
me

Bachelor dust
Is old
I can write my name with my finger
in that which rests
upon the turntable’s hinged cover
In case you don’t remember
What they call me

As I’ve said
I’ve got nothing against it
Ask the dust
Go ahead
Ask it
Resting quite comfortably
on the bookshelves
If there are bookshelves
As if it had
something to do.
I ask it why?

my invading molecules subdivide
and grow more comfortable

Dust?
Why do I smell the stench of
chaste virgins and ***?
The intoxicating odor of foxed letters from an epistolary exchange regarding:
One Fair Maiden and the Devilish Pursuits to  Compromise Her Virtue?
The Opinions and Observations of Fallen Fruit
Here: The woman and her only true
possession
And Here: The sticky absconder who smells of fish.
They meet.
She blinks.

The dust replies
It’s a simple plan:
The Dear Lady is to be led
Astray
by pretty words and unspoken indiscretions
her dowry in the end, useless
She’ll be banished to the counties
To be a governess
or the
Bored companion
of the only living relative who will
Admit her services
Unpaid in silver coins
He is Blind and his Cook has left
Dyspeptic
Disagreeable
Cheap
and Mean.

She is Ruined.
Perhaps she will escape
to Italy
and die
Alone
in the sunshine.

The dust tells me another story
The same century still
This time, a miscreant princeling
surrounded by Trifles
Picking up one bob and then another
Preoccupied by uselessness
Perhaps a strawberry
Perhaps more claret and his mistress’s left breast
Tonight will be the scullery maid
Who will lose more in the end
Than she could ever possibly imagine
Tossed out of the kitchens
to Providence.
God bless Her.

The dust tells me
It’s mercantile, my dear
It’s all transactional
But look at me
I’m here for a time but am easily
Agitated and
Airborne
Aeolian driven
Ever blossoming fugitive clouds of swirling devils
Interstellar Reflection Nebulae
As you can see
I’m never in one place
So I say keep it movin’.
Eva Apr 2019
Deception.

We disconnect when you allow the interception.

Behind these ****-ups and drunken nights,

There's a common lesson.

We search endlessly for the purpose

But you walk away when the confusion makes you nervous.

You + me, we're the result of an iphone with no service.

No purpose,

Aside from the games.
I wish I could say it all smooth,
blue skies and butterflies,
peaches and cream,
sea glass gliding the edge
of the tide and the moon's soft glow
steadying our fragile night.

But the world is too sharp,

darling, and the lullabyes we
whisper before morning dew are
dashed to pieces by noon, the promises
we make suspended somewhere
unreachable. Slashed and stitched but
the scar is elusive. Tenuous.

Till then we conspire.
part of something larger im working on...i know i rarely post, i have a habit of just dropping tidbits of writing into my drafts until i decide what to do with them
Kriti Gupta Nov 2017
longer apart than ever together
caught in moments
bittersweet weather
true to form
am calls
cutting the magic
ending your hold
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