With Love and Longing, Your Calendar.

Made by Swati Singh

I begin,

The week of resolution,
Until your facade of resolve,
Melts,
In its dissolution.

I,

Watch your memories overflow
Into the flowers in nascent bloom-
Fresh with the sky’s own teardrops,
Growing behind your room.

 

Yet I,

March onward into April,
Welcome the summer days
And the fever of youth,
Which in sultriness stays.

 

You,

Check all the boxes,
Turn the pages ,
Until I too am soaked,
With the sky’s tears and yours
Which monsoon so provoked.

 

I,

Watch you hide
Your sorrows behind a wall
And an umbrella too,
Watch,
As you’re dripping, despite it all,
From hair to sole of shoe.

 

I,

Fall into autumn with the loss
That sadness tends to bring,
With cliché and nostalgia
And memories of spring.

 

I,

Turn your thoughts to yuletide
And time that tends to fly
Wish others a merry Christmas,
As the year begins to die.

 

Mourn the year’s passing
And the passage of time,
In what broken down verses
Cannot put into rhyme.

 

The emptiness as lonely hearts,
Beat to the Beatles and other bands
The year that stopped.
And the year that starts,
In patterns no one understands.

Swati Singh

Swati Singh

Scattered Sentences

 

Some people are like assortments within themselves. Swati Singh is one of those people. Caught between precision and presentation, she is often found either striking a fine balance between the two, or attempting to hibernate under a rock. She is a blogger who rarely blogs, an artist who hardly draws and a debater who attempts to wriggle out of most arguments. For the most part , her talents lie dormant as she procrastinates with a single minded lack of determination shared only by her cat, but in her rare moments of clarity, she is likely to impress you with her fierce speeches, witty comebacks and her commendable ability to quote Emily Dickinson and text entirely in rhyme.

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