Posted in Poetry

Shrishti

She’s heard stories about her:

About how she was a bright girl

with a huge heart

And how she adored that actor.

 

She‘d be in college now,

And she can just imagine

How it’d be if she was there

And it’s painful.

 

She remembers

Looking out of the car,

As it rained and thinking,

God’s crying ’cause he misses didi.

 

(Of course, it’s not that she still believes in God; she believes in something that has proof of existence and has actually proven to do something.)

 

She’s never met her,

She’s never met her didi,

She’s never had someone

to look up to and trust.

 

It’s not fair, it’s

the furthest thing from fair.

She was three, three;

She hadn’t even lived yet.

 

She should’ve been there

With her, laughing at her cousin

And loving her poems

And just there.

 

Her name meant

The universe and

It was appropriately so for

she mean(t)(s) the universe to them.

 

I wonder if he-

the truck driver- feels bad

and cries knowing

he contributed to her death.

 

(Of course, no blame to him, he didn’t ask for this to happen; he just set out to do his job.)

 

There’s so many things

She would’ve done,

If she just got a

Chance to meet her.

 

She’d tell her how

everyone is, update her;

She‘d tell her that

they love and miss her.

 

It’s painful to know that

There’s always going

To be an absence where

She should’ve been.

 

It’s painful and hard

To miss something

You dont know

But you should’ve.

 

It’s painful to know

That you had something

But you lost it before

you could experience it.

Advertisements

14 thoughts on “Shrishti

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s