Dear un-Home,
I love you.
I dreamt of writing to you
in eloquent, alliteration-heavy verse.
Writing of smiles, of teardrops, of growth -
of sweet plot twists and of not-so-sweet firsts.
But words seemed to know better,
much to my initial dismay -
they refused to lend themselves
to what I yearned to say.
Sometimes, I wondered where to begin
sometimes, the lines just wouldn’t rhyme.
So I gave up. Because I guess, just like us,
our story was meant to grow at its own time.
I wanted this to be a confession of love -
the kind they call “enthralling”, “poetic finesse”.
But… ours was never an aesthetic story, was it?
Rather, a quiet, beautiful mess…
So I shall resist the temptation to drape
my words in fancy embellishments
I shall write, in the language of our love
which to the world, may make little sense.
I shall disregard conventions of ‘beginning - middle - end’
and embrace shabby, fragmented lines.
I shall leave some thoughts to the language of silence
and hope our love still quietly shines.
I now find poetry (much to my past self’s chagrin)
in that first day when I walked into your arms,
brimming with tears and pain
(as the day I walked into the one other place I call Home).
Little thinking you would teach me
to live, and love, again.
When Main Zindagi ka Saath hit
like a much-needed wave of comfort
When Ellaam Inba Mayam tried
its best to heal all that hurt
When Strawberry Kanne echoed
the first time I allowed myself to smile
We listened to every song,
felt every emotion together, all the while.
“Holding one another’s fingers, we walked
up the aisle of growth” -
all very poetic to the ears…
Poetry that silhouettes what we share
in silences after music dies – the comfort
of intertwined hands, and unwiped tears.
We held space for parts of the other’s selves
which seldom fell in the world’s line of sight
That’s perhaps why, you could give me pieces of myself
And I, shine back on you some of that newfound light.
You allowed me to grow through idiosyncrasies, red eyes,
tear-streamed cheeks and a whole cartload of mistakes
And yes, you grew with me, but also for me - from corridors
and staircases to cherished cherrysh-ed memories and a happy space.
We bonded over shared admiration for our superheroes,
We grappled with goodbyes, failures, emptiness
We healed a little; we loved a lot
and learned to revel in our “quiet, beautiful mess”.
I will not touch upon of “fitting in”
or say “I finally belong”
I know, there will be days you make me
despise you - the road ahead is rocky and long.
After twenty-one months in your womb now - yes, womb
for I see myself being born anew
I do not call you “Home” just yet.
And maybe, until I bid you adieu
I shall not adorn you with that sobriquet.
And yet, you are, in your own way,
comfort. Chaotic, unfamiliar, sometimes ruthless
but comfort - the kind that silently stays.
You are… a quiet, beautiful mess.
A quiet, beautiful mess - something
I have not yet learnt to fully embrace
(be it I, you or these verses)
but undoubtedly, my most happy, safe space.
In conclusion -
I love you.
Yours,
Me.
The Tranquill Poet 🤍
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