And Poem by Shikha Gupta

Lying awake in bed,
Playing with time
On a Sunday morning
Thinking of spent nights
And days unspent.

Playing with time:
Drawing it further
And then in re-wind.
And spinning it around your centre-
Of what you wish was you.
And yours.

There are smoked smells that have disappeared
And clinging to sheets is not the same as
Clinging to them.
Or maybe it is.
They've left, nonetheless.

And there are voices
And words that were Yours;
And the spaces we covered over shared thoughts
And silences
That crept over your cold feet
And warmed them-
Big toe first and then
The next...
Making up for lost time.

And wouldn't it be perfect
If time was your child-
That you could hold on to
Till you had to
And then let go.

If you could hold on to it,
At the right moment,
you could make sure
It was real.
And if it was,
Think of what you should do next.
So that there were no mistakes;
So that you'd always win.

But You know I would never say it's perfect...
You more than anyone else.
And there are windows that are open
To white stars and emptiness,
Waiting for faces
That don't appear.

And you wonder if the thoughts are the same
In other places,
And if the jazz sounds in your head
Will fill spaces everywhere.