By Samriddhi Sharma
A theory I once heard—the red string, they call it.
I read the chapter once, but turned the pages in my mind thrice,
to recall a love—the-one-of-a-kind type.
They call us mirrors. Strange, I heard you do too.
The spine to my dreams, a reflection of your own.
You're the calm to my storm,
The gorgeous sky to my nights,
The sunset to my evenings,
And the reason for my life.
If there is a world beyond or before—a world parallel even—
I hope all my roads lead to you.
I hope my ambitions come home to you.
I hope in every universe, all my love is meant for you.
And on his behalf, I’ll say: I love you, gorgeous.
Even on dusky days and quiet nights, I'm here—
because even if the heavens fall,
I’ll be waiting for your call.
Whatever they see in me began the day you believed in me,
And without you, I’m just strength without meaning.
I’ll take the mic back and let you know—
I'm not sure how truthful the poet was when he said:
She wasn’t the type of beauty that would fade in mirrors,
She was the kind you feel in poems you don’t yet understand.
Or when he said:
She was the kind of beauty that made time falter,
as if even the seconds wanted to stay with her a little longer.
All I know is that in a sea of people,
I search for my anchor, a pair of known eyes,
I search for my reason, a soul that calls me mine.
And I see the only smile that matters,
The one applause that silences all others,
The one and only, my mother.