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Raindrops by Kunjal Saraswat
Raindrops Kunjal Saraswat Raindrops shine under warm lights.I notice it for the first timeAs I sit here—Two hours deepInto this nightWith 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 shuttersShudders under its weight.
I sip my coffeeAnd 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 windowIs not strong enoughTo protect me.It doesn’t knowThat I writeWhat I accept in life.
I’m a writer.I don’t need protection.A simple hole in the groundIs enough for my sleep.
The trembling stops.A smile creeps onto my face,As if I knowWhat comes next.
The glass shatters.Large shards fly toward me,Pricking my legsOne after anotherUntil the whole paneIs embedded in my flesh.
Still, my pen glides smoothlyAcross the page.My coffeeIs 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 coffeeWith large pricks embedded in my flesh.I feel dizzyAs 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 doWhat any writer would do:Leave behind a masterpiece.
I grab my inkpot,Take a feather,And dip itInto 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 waitFor my beloved—My demise—With a smile.”
The feather slipsFrom 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.
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 shuttersShudders under its weight.
I sip my coffeeAnd 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 windowIs not strong enoughTo protect me.It doesn’t knowThat I writeWhat I accept in life.
I’m a writer.I don’t need protection.A simple hole in the groundIs enough for my sleep.
The trembling stops.A smile creeps onto my face,As if I knowWhat comes next.
The glass shatters.Large shards fly toward me,Pricking my legsOne after anotherUntil the whole paneIs embedded in my flesh.
Still, my pen glides smoothlyAcross the page.My coffeeIs 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 coffeeWith large pricks embedded in my flesh.I feel dizzyAs 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 doWhat any writer would do:Leave behind a masterpiece.
I grab my inkpot,Take a feather,And dip itInto 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 waitFor my beloved—My demise—With a smile.”
The feather slipsFrom 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.
More from Kunjal Saraswat ↓
- @_heart_cuddles_ on Instagram
Mentioned in this episode:
Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️
🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️
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By Maggie DeversRaindrops Kunjal Saraswat Raindrops shine under warm lights.I notice it for the first timeAs I sit here—Two hours deepInto this nightWith 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 shuttersShudders under its weight.
I sip my coffeeAnd 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 windowIs not strong enoughTo protect me.It doesn’t knowThat I writeWhat I accept in life.
I’m a writer.I don’t need protection.A simple hole in the groundIs enough for my sleep.
The trembling stops.A smile creeps onto my face,As if I knowWhat comes next.
The glass shatters.Large shards fly toward me,Pricking my legsOne after anotherUntil the whole paneIs embedded in my flesh.
Still, my pen glides smoothlyAcross the page.My coffeeIs 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 coffeeWith large pricks embedded in my flesh.I feel dizzyAs 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 doWhat any writer would do:Leave behind a masterpiece.
I grab my inkpot,Take a feather,And dip itInto 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 waitFor my beloved—My demise—With a smile.”
The feather slipsFrom 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.
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 shuttersShudders under its weight.
I sip my coffeeAnd 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 windowIs not strong enoughTo protect me.It doesn’t knowThat I writeWhat I accept in life.
I’m a writer.I don’t need protection.A simple hole in the groundIs enough for my sleep.
The trembling stops.A smile creeps onto my face,As if I knowWhat comes next.
The glass shatters.Large shards fly toward me,Pricking my legsOne after anotherUntil the whole paneIs embedded in my flesh.
Still, my pen glides smoothlyAcross the page.My coffeeIs 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 coffeeWith large pricks embedded in my flesh.I feel dizzyAs 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 doWhat any writer would do:Leave behind a masterpiece.
I grab my inkpot,Take a feather,And dip itInto 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 waitFor my beloved—My demise—With a smile.”
The feather slipsFrom 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.
More from Kunjal Saraswat ↓
- @_heart_cuddles_ on Instagram
Mentioned in this episode:
Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️
🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️