Nupur Chaturvedi

Is it really the rain that does it,
This precipitation and slush inside?
Will it not go away, then, in winter?
But then some might call it the blues
To match the cyan-grey hues
Of the bleak, foggy morning.
In spring, will it go away,
Or stay on like weeds sprouting unbidden?
And then in the sweltering summer
It will burn like the blazing sun.

No.

No matter what the season
The weather is not the reason
I feel this unease.
It is an unsolved puzzle
My mind can’t let go of.
A song whose melody I have forgotten mid-note
Niggling at me.

It is not a pain
Just the dull ache of unrequited dreams.
It is me waiting for my future to happen.