When Sylvia met Van Gogh

In my dreams,

Sylvia Plath walks around Murakmi's world

With a half burnt cigarette dangling from her fingers ,

She walks on, crossing hills and plains

A semi-forced smile sticks on her lips.

She has left her notebook back in the house that burned while she kept the gas-stove on,

So she writes on the clouds instead,

Whispers poetry to the walls of abandoned homes

The woods have grown darker with her footsteps 

Rich, luscious flowers weep her goodbye.

The air is still heavy with all the blue the sky left behind,

Grief is the new signboard of her favourite cafe.

She stirs onto strands of memories served hot with forgotten hopes,

The place smells of melancholy almost at the verge of insanity 

But not quite there.

On the other end of the cafe,

Sits Van Gogh, with his face hid behind a book,

He is reading "how to smile when you least want to".

He lost the bullets somewhere down the lane

While he was running after happiness.

Sylvia shifts to his table

Another coffee is served

With a split banana cake.

They plan on their next masterpiece together,

The sky outside auto-adjusts itself to fit the window 

The world shrinks a little with every laugh from their table.

-Snigdha