by Bidisha P. Kashyap

She is seven summers old now,

And sits on the edge of my nightstand-

Reciting my past in lullabies,

Every time I try to fall asleep.

Her words keep me on my toes

But when they end,

Your absence screams louder

Than the wounds,

I whisper my prayers upon.

(- your record player | my unheard songs)

There is a summer love

Tucked with smiles and sighs.

But every little crease upon its patterns

Calls out to the storms that swallowed your shadows.

How much am I destined to break,

Till all I can utter, is fragments of broken poetry

Which still hopes to reach your shore,


(- the pale blue scarf | my breakdowns)

My life has been a cluster of agony and trauma

And you painted me in bits of warmth,

Upon every thunderstorm.

But now, whenever the wind rolls past by

And the other side of my bed lays empty,

I seek for the ‘calm’ in my words;

They fall short when it comes to you

But at least, it is less lonely now.

(- your absence | this aching void.)

‘Better days’ I laugh at myself as

The sleeves of your shirt falls off my hands. Again.

I wonder, how your half of the sky is treating you

Or is there a sky on your end, at all;

My hands tremble.

Will I be able hold your hand again-

If not this life, then perhaps the rest that follows?

(- your shirt | my hand, unheld.)

The moon is silent on my scars

As I let myself break again, tonight.

Residues of your heartbeat resides

In every inch of this room –

From the edge of the linen curtains

To the creases of these satin sheets

In poetries and in sighs; you are everywhere.

But not here.

(- your half used bottle of cologne | my sanity.)

A set of apologies forms a heavy lump on my throat

I refuse to let them out and they creep up to my skull,

Rotting every little fragment on their way.

I place the flowers on your grave

Unable to get my words out for the hundredth time.

How extraordinary do you have to be,

To leave a poet starving for words

Even after years of not having your shadows around your lover?

(- your absence | our unsaid goodbyes)

by Bidisha P Kashyap.png


19 y/o aspiring writer, Bidisha P. Kashyap hails from Assam, India. As a part time poet and full time overthinker, her works have found their places in various anthologies, along with Poetry Soup's first ever issue, local dailies, virtual literary community pages and youth magazines. Other than trying her best to come up with something new and pleasing out of all the unsaid rants in her journal and her notes app, she admits that she has a slight obsession with coffee, art supplies, animals, books and winters. 

Instagram - @bidishaa_a