The year that wasn’t.

The year that wasn't.

Nithya Suri

Nobody believed ,the utter reality
Until it all went by,
first it was all about minding your own resolutions,
then it was vindictively praying for the failure of others,

They all died in groups,
One by one,
We embraced our mortality,
With proofs of our faces tucked away in cellphones.

A few vacations thrown in,
A few sleep overs for the workaholics,
We all laughed until tears rolled,
When we actually realized that northwest wasn’t a windy direction anymore,

But first things first,
Here is to hoping,
That next year we survive ,
Just to acknowledge our greatest fears.



I move about here,

Somewhere across the laughter,

You roll there.

We don’t ever see,

Just a glance,

A coincidence, A confusion

festering the the possibilities of ‘could-be’.

The glasses clink,

The money flows,

Reluctantly moving about,

unable to control.

They hedge their bets on us,

We rest their fate,

Keeping ours unknown.

Separate in nature,

Running in circles,

playing this game,


Irrespective of time.

Trash Talk


The dumpster never arrives on time. She sits there on the steps of the front porch.


She tied up the unwanted today.In neat little bags with the zeal of  partial OCD case. She leaves them a bit disorganized for the same.

The wait always is long, patience getting the better of her,every second not passing.She see’s the little blue shoe peeping out from a hole in the enormous black baggage.Her hands reach towards it with a mind of their own. Wriggling it out of the blackness and the burden. Soon the memories flood her.The reason for her love for the color blue renewed.

She resists one last time but checks her watch giving the dumpster a last chance to turn around the corner.

Turning back she opens the door and the unwanted is dumped on her. Perhaps like an avalanche or a waterfall, I wouldn’t know.

And this is how her weekend goes. Her year passes by.

These cyclic events that occur, because the dumpster never arrives on time.

illustration 2