J

By Sweta Raghav

I woke up late today
I woke to the sound of your voice.
Sometimes, so it happens,
Foreign fingers creep up to me,
Uninvited,
And do not let me breathe.
My mind weaves dreams.
It hides knives in them. 
Slow poison runs in the cracks of my skin,
I am made prisoner within myself.
But your voice was there today,
Slowly loosening the noose.
January has become stale already,
Hard bread, 
Moss on salt.
I sleep I wake up I read.
I sleep I wake up I read.
And my days turn
To the melody of the songs you sing,
And I remember you.
I remember the loose curls of your hair,
Your sun-inside-a-honey-jar eyes,
The sweet substance of your smile
And I miss you. 

Sweta Raghav is a writer from a small town in India. She writes poems, short stories, spoken word and everything in between. When she is not daydreaming about writing or has a moment to look up from the book she is reading, she is doing her research work in Psychology. Her poetry delves into themes of love, loss, womanhood and grief and how these three things come together to form the foundation of a person.