by Nisarga Sinha

Ours is a Winter love story.
My messy bun,
your midnight laughter
and
stars.
I have been visiting
the stars on my terrace
of late.
And
the Nebula
erupting from the dead lilacs.
The heavy tinge of forgetfulness
running through my veins
and the evening street.
Yesterday,
I saw J. Alfred. Prufrock
and the unfinished poem
of Eliot’s oblivion,
laughing together,

singing what they could have been,
and
Going to Bob Dylan
to ask
Where the Tambourine Man went?
The soft November dusk
looked vulnerable yesterday,
she told
how Time was broken
and us
Humans
never noticed.
As always.
Just because
sixty three broken clocks
did sing their song,
and Time
didn’t.
Or
the pain looked beautiful,

’cause Time, too,
was a poet
and nobody wrote an eulogy
for the grave.
I found a flower
blooming
in the plant you gifted me.
Red.
My balcony.
Your ink.
The letters you wrote to me.
I found my river today,
on your sweaty palms.
And
here is an empty sky,
a bit more alive today
just because I found
my home in you. 
Who knew that

winter is warm,
winter is home.

Nisarga Sinha

Nisarga Sinha is an amateur poet from India who writes because thoughts can be suffocating sometimes and writing is therapeutic. When she’s not writing, she’s reading fanfictions and trying to sleep when she clearly can’t. Her poems “Of Van Gogh and You” and “Letter to No One” have been previously published on Marias at Sampaguitas.

artist: stacey renee eden