First date conversation


Cranberry sweetness, lime smiles and a shot of vodka,
cheesy glances and a bubbling laughter,
slipping down inside jokes and handing out disclaimer cards.

You know what terrifies me?
And by love I mean the kind of human interaction that comes with a complimentary exchange of the saliva and endless words but where no one really talks.
The kind of love that makes priority lists and sends eggplant emojis in the text messages.
the kind of love that starts with a table cloth and ends with my bedsheets, where my plans don’t matter and your plans are already under the rug, where one is scared of other’s feminist opinions.
Where there is no bridge to meet at the end of the fortnight and midnight kisses leaves footmarks that need covering.

Don’t pretend to not see it, my issues with commitment.
it’s there but I like to get high sometimes.
And by high I mean the kind of intoxication where I don’t remember what century I belong to. Where I feel the love when I get some, where I see your smoke rings and confuse it with the most magical proposal ever.
Where I dance all night on a song that I’ve never even heard before, where my feet looks beautiful and the air tastes delicious when we run so fast we could fly and by flying I mean we make out in streets as empty as our chests and the street lamps are the only ones that could see us, barefoot, unashamed, unwavering.

likes, dislikes, favourites and pet peeves?
A single answer to everything but I like to remember everything.
And by remembering I mean the kind of sticky notes that I leave on my nightstand when I wake all night up writing them.
Pornography, ugh!
Fake kind of love where no one spells anything correctly.
And by no spells I mean there are no magical enchantments, no hazy kind of merriment and no one talks between kisses. I do not like it when the clouds do not create halos around the love that is not even in the air.
Dragons may be fiction but these fulfil my need for documentation.
And by documentation I mean I’ve seen the magic happening and the world’s got to see.
Side hugs.
What the hell is a side hug and why do they even exist?
Because by side hugs I mean the kind of broken souls that do not know what warmth tastes like.

Do not bring me flowers, I say, never bring me flowers.
They say you love me but they remind me of what is wrong in this world.
And by wrong, I mean the kind of life where daisies are buried with a lover’s expectations.
where the architecture reminds us of colonialism and tragedy is showcased in the museums.
I am a sucker for art, I’ll tell you but I’ll cry anyway.
And by crying I mean I’ll take long walks in the rains and give a piece of the cold that I’d eventually catch.

You know what does not terrify me?
And by love, I mean the happy childhood days where we scraped our knees tumbling down on each other’s metaphors.
Where we talk till the end of the night and till the wake of the morning and call it making love, where you need three albums to describe your relationship status and where no one needs to build a home together, where love is enough, for what is enough if love isn’t.
The kind of love that starts with a glance and ends when the world ends with it, the love that’s unpredictable, that’s abominable, which creates a havoc, a riot in the society, that ruins you in the best way possible. The kind of love that can never be explained in a poem


Photography by Vansh Sabharwal

Photo clicked by- Vansh Sabharwal
Check his Instagram here-

For more art and love, check these cool Insta pages (mine included)



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