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  Jun 2015 Vamika Sinha
David
Her city's wine:
Bitter but sweet.
Under the darkness
and under bed sheets.
The scent of cigarette smoke.
The sound of heart beats.
Sore lips, smooth, soft.
They say,
"That which starts bitter
ends sweet."
But that goes both ways.

And that wine:
Sweet but bitter.
A cruel mistress.
Covered in glitter,
glowing, shining
under bright neon lights.
Floating up
and away:
High like a kite;
And leaving, disappearing
gone
into the blackness
of the cold
starless night.
Just some thoughts.
  Jun 2015 Vamika Sinha
Delaney
You told me my words were like cold, sweet milk,
flowing so elegantly into your mouth
on a hot summer's day.
But, I guess, somewhere along the way,
you became lactose intolerant.


(d.d.b)
  Jun 2015 Vamika Sinha
Escalus
"I don't know if I loved you"

Those words echo throughout my heart, crushing it.

Why couldn't you...?
Vamika Sinha Jun 2015
Since when did you fall back into the habit
of making homes out of people?

Stop being so silly.
It's dangerous.

You begin again with your inner monologue:
When will you ever learn?
You've slipped back into the glass comfort of
relocating your heart.
Back from the library into
a girl's blue hair, a boy's ricocheting argument,
so it beats in time,
in time
to the indie music pirouetting out of shared earphones.

But then of course,
you're alone in your bedroom, thinking, realizing.
Those flowers that you've planted
in the skin of one, the eyes of another,
the hands and conversations, notes and
t-shirts
will die one day.
Death frightens you, keeps you
wide-eyed fearful.
A black nothing where
you can't grow flowers.

In all this, in all this,
you've forgotten to sow seeds in your own veins
and take care of your own petals.
You're bloodless and so
your petals lie flat and pale,
dying.
It isn't pretty.
And maybe that's why those homes
where you've nurtured a garden,
planted roses, lilies, ******* sunflowers,
eventually crumble, vanish,
leave.
Before you know it, you're staring at somebody else's home,
somebody else's flowers.
And wishing they were yours.

Haven't I told you
not to make homes out of people?
Getting attached to people is a **** problem.
  May 2015 Vamika Sinha
David
I am a mash-up of mishaps, strange facts and movie quotes.
A cacophony of cool dancing tin hats,
and concerned-looking men,
watching in white lab coats.

I am the hungry seagull searching for salmon,
dodging waves and annoyingly landing on ferry boats.
Dropping gifts to the sunbathers by the  shore,
they never seem to appreciate.
Until they do, I will just drop more.

I am the spinning cactus made of rock.
I am the wealthy, rich millionaire
who sleeps in cheap hotels
and wears odd socks.

You are the last bit of toothpaste
you squeeze out of the tube
before throwing it away.
I haven't brushed my teeth all week.
What more can I say?

I am the broken toy tossed under the bed.
I am the breaking glass, the slamming door,
the words misquoted, misused,
and more than often misread.

I am the one who bites off
more than they can chew.
I am the one who tries and
tries and
tries
to
forget you,
but can never quite seem to.

I am the one who stays up late
sometimes,
to ponder, wonder,
and write these confused, riddled rhymes.

Today is Sunday,
and yet it's already tomorrow.
In my mind, there is no time:
But there is sorrow,
and bursts of joy
and glimpses of hope
and snippets of happiness
and times where I cope,
but most of the time?
Nope.

But today is alright.
One of two poems I randomly wrote today in the car
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