By Sneha Sengupta
Some mornings are more unusual than others.
On some, I don’t rush to the kitchen
to brew my coffee.
Sometimes, I just look out the window
the white curtains swirling,
as if singing,
trying to lure me into believing something.
Some days, I don’t long
for my black coffee without sugar.
Instead, I reach for my pack of cigarettes.
On some mornings,
I see the cranky old neighbour on his walk;
on others,
I see him giggling on the phone with his grandson.
Some days,
Dad doesn’t get out of bed the moment his alarm beeps.
Instead,
he curls a little closer to Mum.
And some mornings,
I don’t think of you at all.
I just stare at the canvas beside me
your curves painted on,
your back, carved in longing;
where my colours ran.
Some days,
the painting inspires me to create more.
on some it speaks
In brushstrokes & shadows,
And on others,
it haunts me.
Like a knife,
screeching through my heart.
So I let the smoke rise,
watch it curl and disappear into the ceiling
like words we never said.
The curtain still dances,
soft as your breath once was on my neck.
And I wonder
if I lit a candle,
would your scent still live in the quiet?
Would the canvas still ache
to become your skin again?
Some mornings end,
but you,
you stay smeared on everything I touch.