Raindrops

Kunjal Saraswat

Raindrops shine under warm lights.

I notice it for the first time

As I sit here—

Two hours deep

Into this night

With the rain.

Well, not just the rain.

It brings its companions:

Thunder,

Lightning,

Showers,

And storms.

Tonight, it’s a stormy rain.

The wind is wild,

And the glass of my balcony shutters

Shudders under its weight.

I sip my coffee

And keep penning my poetry—

This one is about sorrow,

About giving up,

About the reality of life:

Death.

Behind me, the music swells.

The rain’s pattering grows louder,

And the glass keeps trembling.

My window

Is not strong enough

To protect me.

It doesn’t know

That I write

What I accept in life.

I’m a writer.

I don’t need protection.

A simple hole in the ground

Is enough for my sleep.

The trembling stops.

A smile creeps onto my face,

As if I know

What comes next.

The glass shatters.

Large shards fly toward me,

Pricking my legs

One after another

Until the whole pane

Is embedded in my flesh.

Still, my pen glides smoothly

Across the page.

My coffee

Is still warm enough to drink.

I’m vulnerable now—

To the storm,

To the ache.

Lying here,

Wrapped in warm lights.

Penning my poetry

and having coffee

With large pricks

embedded in my flesh.

I feel dizzy

As blood flows down my beige sofa

The stain will last forever.

As I reach the final line,

My pen gives out—

No more ink.

And I do

What any writer would do:

Leave behind a masterpiece.

I grab my inkpot,

Take a feather,

And dip it

Into my soaking blood.

If the stain remains,

Let it mark my diary too.

I finish my poem.

The last line reads:

“For as long as it takes,

I shall wait

For my beloved—

My demise—

With a smile.”

The feather slips

From my lazy hand.

And as I shut my eyes,

I notice the rain again—

And for the first time,

I realize:

Raindrops shine under warm lights.

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