Of A Few Things You Are To Me

Of A Few Things You Are To Me

Written by Ayush Banerjee


You are the storm 

that I can make peace with. 

I have been dreaming about you

for so long,

under the relentless summer and chilly winters,

for you have always been the pillow

where my mind rests

where your swift body blends into my ocean,

where I can feel the warmth I’ve lacked forever. 

You’re like the holy water that bathes the shrine

blissfully ignored by mankind. 

I’ve been the brook without hope, 

without a definition,

a constant flow through cracks and crevices;

you are my desired catharsis, 

draped in dead lillies of the earth

hand picked from the ground 

by the blind,

I’ve admired your skin, 

above all the dirt,

I felt like I’ve latched onto you

for so long. 

Your eyes,

a mistletoe;

they’d make me wish

of a parting kiss

slowly wipes the dirt of bad dreams on my lips

and when I see my reflection in them,

boy, 

I wonder why I have always hated me so much. 

I’ve found myself,

whenever,

like the unwilling disturbance to mankind,

honey, 

Oh! how tenderly 

you’ve rescued them from

the madness they see in me

restoring faith in the hopeless

and stroking my hair, gently,

with those fingers,

those very fingers,

once afraid to stand up for themselves,

restoring the faded belief in my eyes. 

You’re the amiable rays of a winter’s sun,

caressing parts of me

often shivering with insensibility

for a while. 

I’ve been the feeble boat,

cast away into the sea,

bearing the poison of self-loathing-

wild termites for the wood

and insecurties for the mind;

a bleak ray of light

I see on top of my wounded plank

and there appears Selene

observing my anguish,

for even the clouds of Erebus

felt feeble against the saviour’s care;

and there I saw you again

like the faintest light

at the end of the darkest tunnel,

only for me to accept 

my gentle scars and my fierce battles

I often fight within me. 

I’ve been lying around

as the grave without grief,

skin as strong as the hardest wood

made of the most resentful goodbyes,

until you had visited the grave

and a broken daisy keeps me company,

tries not to fix the flawed and broken,

you, too,

shall never define

what is alive and what is dead.

And honey,

if only,

I could tell you 

that I have tried so hard

to be the leaves of affection

bearing eyes that admires

your battles with the cold,

if only,

someday those leaves

could rest your rays of warmth and vigour

for sometimes a dying hope, too,

deserves to be rewarded. 

And honey,

if only,

I could treat you

as you are to me,

if only,

I could be half the man

that you deserve,

I would wish to be 

a withered tree

that’d preserve the memory of you,

held within the feeble branches

that had to let go of their leaves. 

You’re the handwritten letters 

that I fear to read,

for it’d be my greatest sin

to define you. 

I’m forever grateful

to everything that you are

and all that you ever made me feel-

of all that has brought peace 

to the storm within me. 


Ayush Banerjee
Ayush Banerjee

A poetry connoisseur, Ayush writes what he sees, experiences, and believes. 

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