MY SUNSET COLLECTION -

- A Series of Daydreams that I Yearn for the Most.

by Bidisha P. Kashyap

1. Stuck in traffic – altering hues of the November sun reaching out for the lost metaphors in fragile eyes/a parade of cars stretch endlessly watching birds fly back to their home/the familiar smell of roasted coffee lingers by the streets/your yellow tote filled with some second-hand classics sits on the passenger seat/the song you slow dance to you on your high school prom comes on the radio and you can’t help but smile as the crimson remains of the sun kisses the busy city a see you again.


2. The one with the dog – you walk along the riverside taking the long way home/a butterfly sits on your shoulder/you smile coming along to the new tune which is stuck in your head since the day you walked in to that small flower shop next to your uni/a laughter suddenly bricks up your ears and a few moments later you spot a wagging tail followed by a little girl/you watch them from afar for a while, humming to yourself as some dandelions keep you company.


3. Waiting for the bus – you wait at the bus stop in your soaked pullover and muddy shoes/ undoing your braids you sit quietly listening the rhythm of the raindrops upon the roof above you/ the winds get cold as you clutch on your pullover/ after a few shivers the rain stops/you walk up to the edge of the road, wanting to feel the soft sun on your cold skin/a few warm kisses to a little happy heart and you hear the bus arrive.


4. The one with the bike – tangled wires and dusty piano keys/on my lavender dress still smiles the faded red wine stain that my high school boyfriend spilled three summers back/ the cream coloured curtains against my window frame along with the few hydrangeas I have been trying to grow for a while, somehow has always been my safe place/ the skylight splits in two somewhere while I watch the sun sing the songs of sunset to the charming old town on my half/ suddenly an unfamiliar feeling overwhelms me/ I run up to the front gate and the next thing I know is the wind whirling across me as I pedal faster and faster/ ten minutes, forty-two seconds and the sea stands proudly in front of me/I spot a blue bicycle similar to mine from a distance and can’t help but feel my heart race/three years, seven months and eleven days/ “so you did remember?” a familiar voice chuckles in the background.


5. After a long day – winter of 2012/ loose cotton shirts tucked into pleated school skirts/your hair falling after a long on your face as you pack your bag/ your best friend smiles from the corner of the classroom/ walking down the hallway you bid every familiar face a goodbye/ your best friend smiles showing off her fountain of wrinkles by the corner of her eyes over your ice-cream date/ the sun softly falls on your shoulder as you watch your shadows dance while you walk home/waving your best friend goodbye you take your lane towards home/ you are happy. You are loved.


6. The one with pink clouds – the sound of your lover’s laughter alongside your cheeky smile/ a list of your “origami names” sit on your lap, each making you laugh harder and harder/ the sound of the brook makes you want to grasp this moment with all your might/ your lover says how he cannot wait to see the sakura flowers next year with you while you cast him back a crooked smile/ soon the sunset starts to hover above you/ fabled pink skies and young hearts full of love/maybe it is true that pink skies are handcrafted for those who falls a little too hard; unknowingly but deeply.


7. Made me feel better – the old library holds a faint smell of vulnerability/ sharp smell of burnt out cigarettes and the set daisies upon every window pane/ you sit beside the huge reciting another classic romance/ the clock tower stands tall amidst the town and the last fleeting rays of the sun clings on to the- cathedral down the street, the cracked sidewalks, the happy cafés, the “vulnerable” library along with me/ “vulnerable” I laugh closing my book and tracing my fingers upon my burnt marks/ you say “vulnerable” like it is a bad word/ aren’t all wonderous artworks outcomes of vulnerability too, love?

 
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BIDISHA P. KASHYAP

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.