If all the beauty in the world
ceases to exist someday,
You would still be the unwritten poem for me,
The one I could never finish.

For I fear, that if I do so,
You would be lost forever in this world,
in the unseen books and the untouched pages
and in the hands of all those admirers,
whose fingertips have forgotten,
the art of patience.

© Shashank Bhardwaj


The curves begin to melt,
Its astounding we remember
Everything we touch.
So your memory is a trace of fingertips,
From the callous neck, to the sculpted collar bones, you are a like a hidden lake in an island forgotten, where I dip to forget myself,
The curves extrapolate like rays of sunlight never knowing why,
From the breasts to the fine arch of the back,
Everything dissolves again and again,
My hands aren’t wet with your touch?
Are you really what they call as magic?

For my hands disappear within you,
Tracing every tips without whispering you,
Touching everywhere without telling you?
Making it a dream, with dreaming you,
Do you feel it all, or should I be dissolving you?
Not by touch, not by shyness
But by a pool of shyness and leaving you?
I never knew how to withdraw, so the dress is leaving you?
Maniacal? Sensuous? Are you mad?
All sound same. While your eyes teach you.

© Shashank Bhardwaj


It’s that time of the year again,
where the warm bottles of beer
and graveyards of cigarettes lie untouched,
the tongue savours the breeze of ice jewelled air.
The night turns into an abyss,
Cold slithers in as an irresistible prostitute,
the time decants drip by the drip,
stars swirl with ounces of battling warmth,
there is no hibernation, when you need it.
No pauses, when you press yourself of the edges of dissolution.
It’s pure madness, a cocktail of greed, desire, lust and lack of empathy.
The graveyard is lit, the warm river flows to my heart,
Another blackout. Another hangover,
A slick smile at the mirror.
A cycle of no purposes, repeat.

– Shashank Bhardwaj


Every tiny strand of this miniscule breeze
rummages through my bones, whispering voicelessly to drown in the unknown.

The kiss of light, is a birth of a memory.
The movement of tongue, is a voice of a dream
The feel of fingertips, is a breath never tasted.

Tell me how to forget all of them
and still exist, like a night without a moon.

– Shashank Bhardwaj

Writing in a dream

You wear a skin of butterfly bush,
and bathe in a pond of musk,
a dark ocean slithers in your eyes,
with a breeze of warmth trespassing
flesh and bones.
An elixir of forgetfulness drips by the lips,
while potent desire brews on the tongue,
I sometimes wonder what your voice could do,
in the dark?
The collarbone is a carved symphony
with a pleasant hymn in the rain nights,
Have you ever touched something
and not see it melt and sublimate at the same time,
I feel sorry for your neck, for it is a sublime echo of loneliness,
awaiting a cold drizzle that drips to your waist slowly.
Your hands do not forget your love,
they leave imprints on fleshes of those very lucky.
Well I don’t believe in luck.
I believe in writing about them with my bare hands.
What about you?

– SB


The tongue is heartless servant, it slithers on your neck and lips, like a snake devoid of warm flesh, I feel the warmth and the tremble in cleavage, but I am cursed as in eden.

It smothers the bra slowly, peeking within satanic eyes, the warmth is a thirst for a thing made of out flesh, it multiples while inside, caressing, pressing, Disappearing with eyes,
Your breath is a kiss of blaze burning and I was a winter worth nurturing with hands choking my existence

The breasts caressed slowly, into a tumultuous moment of touch, I trace the tips to its origin, feeling them erect and ready for to pleased, unhook now and lie down, let me taste the eden before being banished forever.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

A room with no music

I swallow a room in my mind,
to digest its origins.
Its woodwork churns and mollifies,
I could feel my fingers full of sawdust and laughter,
lost handprints(possibly mine), from the dying
furniture and the floor caress my head.

You will always find a way to meet yourself,
once you are forgotten by everyone.

The lights are turning dim,
I do not know, how to serve light in a tall glass for myself?
Can you teach my fist to hold sands of darkness?
I shall learn somehow, to sprinkle when necessary.

You can learn anything, you want.
But remember to put off the light in the end.

The garden screams with its emptiness,
and my eyes could bear the shrieks.
Is this is how I forget your touch?
Without music? Without sleep?