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Vamika Sinha Jul 2015
'Tu me manques'.
I miss you.

Or literally
'You are missing to me'.
I like that.
I like that it seems
as if
this person is so necessary,
so important,
so absolutely integral to my life that
they are 'missing' from me.
Missing.
Like a limb or my skin or my thoughts,
things I can't live without.

'Tu me manques'.
My love for the French language knows no bounds. Also, this was originally a diary entry.
Vamika Sinha Jul 2015
Wanderer.
From window to window.
Seeking
             something
in different glass scenes
from offices and trains and restaurants.
Like she'll see something or someone
or somebody.
And the world will no longer be
a tilted painting.

Clear spring cold
papers over
the scene of the city of her world.
She's freezing.

There is a cafe at the end of the
road
where sidewalk snow has mingled
with trod-on mud
from commuter's shoes.
It's called
'Les yeux qui voient tout'

She can smell coffee and cigarettes and paper and words
and smiles and wine all the way from Bordeaux.
She sits by the window.

Tendrils of hair cut
across her cheek
as she lowers.
The seat is cold.
Legs crossed,
                       arms clasped,
high-heeled shoes with straps
that cross,
head bent
over a crossword.

'Un cafe au lait, s'il vous plait.'

Last four-letter word pencilled in so
she crumples up the paper.
The eyes don't notice
origami birds dangling above her.
Somehow
they're all angled
towards the glass window
like sunflowers reaching for the sun.
Perhaps the casual
shuttered-open winds
are the birds' oxygen;
reminders that
                          something
like
sky,
air,
wind,
exist, beyond
coffee-smoked counters.
Reminders that
they could breathe, live, fly
in some other city of some other world.

Cup and saucer on a silver platter
hover over.
Idle fingers
and then a clatter.
She stares down into
the white porcelain pit,
teeming with hot brown
                                           alarms.
It isn't a portal
into
       something.
Just a cup of coffee.
Now that is an alarm.

Slow and
                shaking,
drip,
         drip,
                  drip.
The milk is poured.
Curling, italic, Persian carpet spread
from the cup's centre into warm-cream brown.
She imagines it is
blood in her heart.

She raises the little silver teaspoon
napping on the saucer and
stirs.

'Le sucre?'
Does she want it all
to be
sweeter?

Two packets, long like
Marlboros,
hastily, desperately dumped
into the mix.
Quick and
                  shaking,
she raises the little silver teaspoon and
stirs.
Little sugar grains ******
into a vortex,
dissolved and melted into
the city of the world of the cup.

With her little finger, she
dabs
stray sugar grains
on the table
and tries to bring sweetness
to her sleep-thick tongue.

Slow and
                shaking,
sip,
      sip,
            sip.

She's­ tricked herself
into feeling warmth.
Ticker-tape banner
pops up in her head:
'All of this will not
fix you.'

Porcelain clatter
as cup meets saucer.
Again.
She arms herself with
a cigarette case and a book.
Maybe now she will belong
amongst these people
with sad eyes and burning lips,
clinging on to cups and drinks.
So desperately-lit smoke
trails out of
her warm mouth,
steaming up her face
like a window on a cold winter day.
And meanwhile Camus perches
in her hand.

Her eyes swim
in the choppy seas
of French.
The cigarette dangles,
painting the air grey, grey,
tilting, tilting, tilting.
Slow and
                shaking,
she weeps.

Half-aglow in the white sunshine filter
from the glass window,
a woman is wondering.
She drinks her coffee,
wipes her smudged mouth
and leaves.

Nobody notices the wobble
in her high-heeled gait.
She's just a part of
another tilting painting,
another glass scene.

These simple acts,
           simple things,
define
the speaking soul.
In a scene of the city of the world.
It's all a metaphor.
  Jul 2015 Vamika Sinha
Aleska Servian
The gap between her teeth
i bet you'll think it's lovely
and in cold nights, after midnight
she doesn't even feel lonely
I hope you find the time
and the courage to tell yourself
that you don't have to avoid certain feelings
and leave your dusty happiness on a shelf
But i wasn't capable
of breaking the bones of your ribcage
but i hope she can do this
squeeze your heart until there is no quiet rage

Life is all about the right time
and you always lose the right moment
then you go to the bottom of your mind
looking for reasons why you think you're broken
But you can not offer salvation
to someone who is already choking
with his own ideals of life
and misplaced lies
Sweet words that will remain unspoken

The brown color of her eyes
i bet you'll find beauty in the ordinary
because i think i scared you
when i tried to show you the extraordinary
I hope you can move those mountains
the ones you didn't even touch for me
until there, your fate will be resting
at the bottom of the sea
I'm sorry i wasn't capable
to change your mind about jazz and love
all this time the universe was screaming
"His loyalty was not to me, but to the stars above"
It's time to let you go
“The blood jet is poetry, and there is no stopping it,”
So the tragic Sylvia Plath muses.
As the heart pumps and beats,
It is the ever-faithful metronome,
The tempo of my life’s song;
My blood flows, pulsating passions
From my center to my extremities.
These passions are best set to words,
Hence the source and origin of
My verse…

So, beat on, heart .
I have more words to share,
I have more passions to experience.
Sylvia Plath is a writer I bring up a lot when I teach my Creative Writing class.
  Jul 2015 Vamika Sinha
Dreams of Sepia
eyes dart
train station waits

                      empty footsteps smartly
                      sound

the bone parade

                      wiping make-up from your face
                      you're waving to eternity

                      but eternity does not wait
                      for you,

preferring preacher men

in stiff neck-collars
downing whiskeys

                              just as you leave
                              a butterfly dies

& newspapers the next day
print an article about the extinction

of a rare species
& the train station waits

waits
waits
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