Her toes teased the pull my feet lay idle on
I was drawn by almond slits that claimed eyes
Saw a scene I can’t recall.
I wanted to touch her, was she soft?
Or were her fingertips calloused with the earth’s dirt she didn’t bother shed?
I crouched to her level, fumbling for a dialogue that could gauge her attention
undivided at the skies instead.
I wondered then perhaps, did she find me beautiful?
She didn’t hold a gaze to my face,
Maybe I was unimpressive then
My hand grapples a weight latched to my chest,
but is catching cloth that clings to trembling skin
I’m terrified of you
Till dainty fingers lace themselves around mine
I want to hold you
I want you to like me
We can’t.
And then she’s gone
because she wasn’t meant to be here
She was meant for the beautiful part of a daydream
As I was meant as weak limbs bound to ground
trying to remember who you are.
Author’s Note: This poem captures a moment in a dream I had where I met my younger self. I found that I admired her but she was indifferent toward me. The more we gained proximity and interaction, the more detached she became. It is hence a piece of admiration toward what I used to be and the inability to understand what I am today.
Keya Gangoly
Author
This is Keya Gangoly’s second contribution to CentreForConversations. She is soon going to complete her schooling and move into an undergraduate program. She loves writing and literature.
Isha Gangoly
Illustrator
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