DESEMBER_UNIKUM_WEB

POEM
Anjali Mariampillai
Web Editor
Photo: AdobeStock // Vshyukova
my pockets are full of candy wrappers.
to write is to feel. i unwrap the strawberry candy of my
words and let it slowly melt on my tongue, the plastic
wrapper crinkles in my fist. i cannot steal butterflies,
so i grow them, nourish them and feed them with my
words, so that they will flutter in my stomach. i dig,
claw first, in my misery in hopes of finding a heart
shaped locket with your name in it. i write about
whatever it was, is, and was meant to be. my lifelong,
big, cinematic pink romance are the words that caress
my face and pumps blood through my veins.
i would have left you my entire heart if i could.
i wanted to leave my brown beaded bracelet around your wrist, but i
forgot. however, i put three small packets of the prawn cocktail crisps
you like in your backpack when you were not looking. i hope that‘s okay.
i keep wishing you left one of your silver rings on the table at Laila‘s. i‘d
put it in my pocket so that you‘d have a reason to come back. i‘ll keep the
polaroid in my phone, so that comes with me on every journey. and when
the worn down phone case finally caves in, i get to tell them about my
soulmate. and how you scared the hell out of me by the Scott Monument.
i‘ll tell them about the crystals we picked out for each other and the exact
number of Smints you put in the palm of my hand (the spearmint ones, not
strawberry). i left you with my sweater vest, the one that fits you so much
better than me. you left me with your poetry book, it fits me perfectly.
my love is mine, all mine.
i carry her with stars in my eyes. she is in
the curls and soft coils of my hair, and in the
words that i speak. i carry her in every tear
and in every stroke of pen to paper. i carry her
on my lips in a black honey hue and show her
off with a bright smile. i carry her smudged
mascara and yawns on sleepless nights. i carry
love with me to bed and let her rest soundly
in the walls of my heart and i protect her.
nothing in the world belongs to me, but my love.
her
it was when i was left hollow at a train
station i realized that i had been loved in
the way i love. poetically, beautifully and
with a hint of melancholy somewhere
in between. she puts orange slices in my
hands and says „here, have my heart“,
and suddenly i‘m overflowing to the point
of spilling drunken „i love you“ texts after
midnight - to the right person this time.
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