She is a living art
Too real to be called fiction,
Too fictitious to be called real.
Her dreams are shades of red,
Inside her body like
blood sandwiched between flesh.
She talks to the polka-dotted curtains that hang in the lobby,
like forgotten art, in a room decorated with false-ceilings.
She smells of flowers
Her soul— a basket full of baked stars,
Forgotten amidsts a sky,
dotted with scraps of papers—
that knit fibres of theories.
She carries her stories,
While they carry legends of inventions and discoveries.
She is the boiling milk,
Taken off the stove,
And mixed with cinnamon
To loose it’s colour, forever.
Reach out to me on instagram @ekanika_shah