Hariny is a 22-year-old writer who grew up amidst the thriving Dravidian culture and ancient temples in the city of Madurai in Tamil Nadu. She is currently pursuing a master’s degree in Creative Writing from Newcastle University, UK. When there is no writing for the day, she can be found lost between the pages of fresh hardcovers or intensely focused over a pot of boiling pasta.
when you crumple the scented sheets
and kick your shoes away from the bed
we do not think of hearts that are set to break
or candles that drown in their lights
i look back at you and smile
build towers with green flowers, seeds too red
and pasta that is fresh. place them on a wet plate
and watch you take out spoons and mugs from an empty drain
shades of pink. a range of red.
scatter across your open face. i watch them
shiver. i watch them change. and i know that we are
too close to want another start over again.
you are here. you are not.
you hug me and walk far away.
i dust and dust the scattered pillows
and get under sheets that still remember you.
sometimes i look at you confused
trying to search for a feeling that would rise up new.
lying under a ledge of books that are orange and blue
i try to write down all my words for you.
the days are cold and nights alone
my journals and notes are as fresh as you.
i take away the milk in used cups and trays
and wonder if there is anything more you have to say.
we do not look at the sun most days
or dwell on the times that raced past our pace.
i see new autumn leaves above me
and think of mangoes and forts when you are fast asleep.
when the lights are still on in our street
we open our windows wide
sway together holding our breath
and kiss like we are the only thing that’s there.