10 rows, 58 columns.
No, 18 and 80,
or 40 and 100.
Just, many-a-many.
Covert compartments- big and small,
sloppily stacked- petite and tall,
In my head- each and all.
7C has letters like lyrics of ancient songs
and sincere mixed tapes from who and who.
They remind me of tighter skin and romanticism,
When I could have my cake and eat it too.
2A is stuffed with pages
fondly folded at top tips,
from all the books I’ve read so far.
I skim through them on lonely nights,
When I’m secretly stood up Tony’s Bar.
10T is the one with fairy lights.
Merry, full, and beaming bright.
It’s the drawer of my childhood junk
old walls, mom food, and school-stuff trunks.
1D is big and full of faces
Familiar, and new;
Known, and nice.
Tough to tell one from another
Different eyes,
same lies.
6C mourns with pretty pictures
of my plants that passed away.
It lingers with a smell that reads
‘I’m sure there was another way’.
5F is flourished with fragrances
that flood me with forgotten phases-
I correct one memory and then another,
like a child frantically writes and erases.
And then 3T and 9K are left half-open,
for obsessively compulsive heads to notice.
To trade something in and out of them-
a song, a day, or perhaps, just a flying kiss.
Vidhi is a messy, but proud mom of two stunner labradors, Jelly and Don. She wakes up at 5 to go running on days that she’s not already up binge-watching thrillers. Apart from poetry and dogs; her husband, a small, plant-flooded balcony, and pizza also manage to take away a huge chunk of her daily concentration and succeed to make her feel complete and happy.
