//Hopefully, the one it’s written for doesn’t read this. One of dearest friend chided me, if I feel this gravely about people, why don’t I openly write about them? He went so far as to blame me of carelessly tossing around the word  “love”. And I’ve spent weeks mulling over the fact if what I feel is real or not. But I choose to stick with all the admiration for the people I come across. Appreciate them for all the joy they sprinkle, throw around like confetti, their presence painting the world colorful. These gorgeous, bewitching, precious souls.

Brinda is a siren on stage.

I knew she wrote the best poems,
word spread like fire in the campus
she supported the LGBTQ community
quite openly in an orthodox college like ours
and she likes girls
which is great,
she remained an unseen fantasy,
a legendary goddess of some sorts
her vision never known to me
yet words of her reached me
beguiled me enough to worship the then rumors

until she presented her poem on stage
and I got an inkling of the deception known as Brinda

I can’t remember what she spoke
but I can reminisce these things crystal clear
like they’ve imprinted themselves
so much into my skin – seeped deep  within,
I still feel it ringing in my ears
her voice, accent, person – changed drastically
like she’s a butterfly – a gentle breeze of loveliness
no, she’s a silhouette of a lioness

her voice changed
subtle, suggestive, slow
low, deliciously low

the necessary slurs of her words
the gaps and gasps in what she spoke
confident, innocent

all that lured us in,
we didn’t know if we were drowning
or afloat
but we could feel
her voice floating to us
ravishing us, languidly
caressing us all the more gently

and yes, I quite recall
what froze me in time
as if it were only she and I
in a vast land of treacherous seas
She, Marilyn
and I just a dreary man looking for love

and then she ended, smile lighting up the room
“Love is… Anya”

No, we didn’t know who Anya is,
but that definition felt quite right
she lulled us to agree
swayed us to believe
love is Anya,
love is she.

Tell me then, if a siren isn’t what Brinda is
then what is?

//Listening to Visions of Gideon by Sufjan Stevens
Featured Image is from here.

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