By Ankita Chawla
The sky burst open
like a fruit
too luscious
for a tongue
too gentle.
It ran.
It tickled.
It hurt—
wherever it went,
its juices
dripping like rain.
And it drenched.
And I squinted
with joy.
It was too much—
but that is how it is
with the good things:
they shock you
before they cuddle.
But clouds
render beauty
only until they don’t—
only until they’re angered
by too much.
It did not sink
my boat
in the storm.
It was rocked.
But discomfort
works in strange ways:
it stops
being itself
when it sees
that you dare.
The prayer,
the sky,
all you.
Before it started,
after it ended—
you only became
tougher
to break,
to dim,
to bend.
And then,
the storm
remembered
who was fiercer.