Author: nehaallathur

For five minutes,
I close my eyes
and give into the prose of sound.

Motorcycles rev down 6th street
with a sense of synchronicity,
like a familial fleet.
A lasting roar of a herd on asphalt.
Tires on concrete reach a screeching halt-
a sound bite to a nearing stoplight
Racing each other yet sticking together.

A sudden splash of children in the pool
In a flash, a flicker of my eyelash,
droplets hit my skin rhythmically,
andante, andante
Its graze is cool, creating a haze so cruel.

I catch the gossip of women on a nearby balcony
A decrescendo of shared agony.
Their whispered words are rushed before thought
Hushed in fear of being listened to or caught.

A brief moment of piano
met with the forte of orchestral cheers
from Monday night football.
Empty pitchers slam the table as the crowd sprawls
Frustrated groans meet ecstatic high fives
As this game goes down in archives

Each melody is distinct,
Sharply detached, staccato notes
And creates a harmony so succinct
Before a tune is built the verse wilts;
my eyes open to the fading beats of an urban symphony.

Curtains pulled back to midnight,
And a stage of dancing stars.
Too brief, this autumn light.
Stolen, but never ours.

Ours was never a bite
into a crisp apple autumn sky.
A bright, chilled dewy cry.
No.

Ours was the brink of a buoyant horizon,
turned to shade in the blink of an eye.
Tied down by an emerging moon.
For one moment, the pulse in this room ceases,
as the death of day show steals our breath.

Welcome to The Night Shift.
Time drenched in thrifted emotions,
sharing silence in slow motion.
In the midst of darkness,
we create color.

Shadowed vision,
but you catch a broken smile
and words unspoken.
It’s always one touch forward,
but two thoughts back.

In my corner of nightfall
I set down all composure.
I’ve been here before,
been here often.
Moonbeams feel no pressure to enter my window,
for I can navigate transience with my eyes closed.

As I take a seat by this fountain
And listen to you speak tonight,
everyone around us fades away.
It’s not that you have so much to say,
But your few words are arranged into a lovely bouquet.

My October boy,
are you a blueprint or abstract art?
You carry a California breeze in your back pocket,
But keep Chicago winds in your heart.
Your expression reads casual,
yet somehow still curated,
Like a timeless design,
you will never be outdated.

Your voice is soft, yet your charisma stays aloft,
October boy, you are now on top.
More adventurous than August, and sweeter than September,
Your eyes-closed smile is one that I’ll remember.

An old man walks by to say what he perceives,
Before asking our names, he tells us that he believes,
In us. What a magically frightful phrase to hear.
I think I’m falling for you like crisp golden leaves.

Between two rolling hills, the first glimpse of metal tracks emerge.
The platform is scattered with people ready to leave,
but I am sitting on the verge.

Counting each track as I wait for some peace of mind.
Luggage filled with the memories I cannot leave behind,
it’s almost too heavy for me to carry.
So perhaps I should stay back with my luggage,
or convince myself my destination is the wrong location.

I’d leave comfort for curiosity at this station.
But then two eyes fixate on my visible trepidation.

Fleeting strangers he seeks out on the sidewalk,
he gave me a spotlight in the comfort of small talk.
Because those I love and hold so dear
are always going to stand so near,
that I forget beauty from the horizon.

Waiting for the train becomes a journey in itself.
Standing with no expectations,
my fears are now painted over with new conversations.

To inspire without intimacy,
connect with no intricacy,
I remember a soft smile and hazel eyes,
yet you will never be named.

This moment passes by with the train,
and I find peace in the transience.
Our lives never need to cross paths again,
this fragile tie can remain undefined.
Confined to the walls of the New York Train Station.

I eventually get on my train, ready to leave.

A time of milk and honey, where no one talks about money—
champagne conversations and dicty dialogues—
in a town of copied and pasted happy faces,
they find a target for their jealous disgraces.
A woman moves in wearing her silk scarf and stoicism,
eyes reflecting her wisdom like a prism.

Without warrant, their words would spread in torrent,
always giving their looking-glass logic on her loneliness.
Her diamond-pierced ears would hear ear-piercing lies,
but one-by-one she would collect them and polish them,
weave them together into a magnificent chandelier
that she hung from her mansion so proudly,
hosting galas without invites and music playing loudly.

Red rosy lips softly spell out her secrets,
once touched with passion, but now with regret.
She grew up hiding her pain in pressed-powder,
then created success when no one allowed her.
The day she wore hardship like high heels,
time slowed down until every moment was dusk.

She pours charisma into her glass hereafter
and walks with the scent of vineyards in her laughter.
The only time where nostalgia lies in the future.

She was raised to romanticize every view—
rolling hills nearby would bid her adieu
and the sky would blush at her everlasting glow
only one set of footprints walks along this chateau.