fragments

FRAGMENTS.

VARINI GUPTA

A Hundred different shades
of lip balm,

I like to notice things. Little things. I like to observe relationships, how our bodies reflect our personalities. I like how lips move. My father’s lips- although very rough at the edges, I see softness in their shape, like marshmallows roasting by the fire on a cold winter night. One can notice the intricate detailing of the cracks his chapped lips have to offer. Almost as if a drought had hit him. “Use lip balm honey,” Mama says, with her lips as fresh as a dewy rose. The beautiful pink glazes my eyes every time I see those glossy porcelain lips. Like a doll’s face, so fragile, that one little blow will smash them into a million pieces. So precious, that it holds her smile together. My lips look like Sarah Graham’s art. Sweet, like she paints her candies. I like how the flushed red of the lips pop on my face perfectly, like Haribo gummy bears waiting to be eaten.

I don’t like sunrises.

I like many things. Small things, big things, things that are so enormous, I can’t see ends; I like things which tell me stories, most of all I like things which make me stand out. Cigarettes. There’s something about them. Monday 7pm, my dad getting home from work, the subtle scent of tobacco buried under heaps of cologne. The very opulent aroma instantly transports me to Gatsby’s great parties. Luxurious, weren’t they? Colourful. I like colours. Maybe sunsets. Don’t get me wrong here, I don’t like sunsets for their beauty. I love the dark that follows the sunset; the stillness, as though everything froze around it and watching the last embers turn into the dark.. the dark black sky. It’s where the depths of my mind can delve into the eternal sadness that washes itself off. Slowly.
I like to tell stories. Stories that emerge into poetry. Things you would want to listen to with a hot cup of cappuccino; next to the comfortable warmth of the fireplace gently kissing your skin. I like to remain unfiltered. Words just fizzle out between my wrists. When I write I see myself on the paper...almost like a mirror. After all, we’re all broken mirrors, finding smashed pieces in people and things and the whole paraphernalia to show us who we are.

My grandfather
who smoked cigars on
Fridays,

I like old things. Dusty things? Antique things, things with rich stories, things with broken hearts. On one distant shelf in my room kept is a half-lit cigar. It’s from the 1980s they say. Still carefully wrapped in brown, muddy paper, freshly smelling of grounded tobacco. It was one of the first modern cigars to be made, my grandpa told me. Cohiba, the label read as each of my fingers ran through the remaining pieces of the bright blue. Just like the sky on a sunny day. Pressed by fingers over time, you could see the subtle dents stretching down the long yet slim neck of the cigar. The crown printed on the top reminded me of the queen. The sophisticated detailing of the gold and emerald. It seemed luxurious. Almost like it had been smoked at one of the lavish parties by beautiful ladies in silk dresses with dark red lipstick stains at the tip.