Prisha Khimavat

Some met in hospital nurseries,

While others at college parties.

Some grew up together, 

And then grew apart from each other.

While others grew up apart

But grew the most, together.

Some met over oranges 

And screamed on rollercoasters.

They danced many nights away

And talked up storms.

They captured memories in polaroids,

And laughed so hard it hurt,

But mostly, 

They tried to always be there,

No matter what.

Others met through workshops

Despite being from different hemispheres.

They wrote murder mysteries and poetry, 

And visited museums and vegan bakeries.

With words on paper, 

They bared their souls to strangers

Until one day, 

That’s all they were to each other.

Some, on a beautiful winter night,

Intoxicated on friendship 

And inebriated by the night sky

Jumped over walls 

To revisit a graveyard of memories

Laughter echoed in the air,

As they dug their own graves.

And a few hours later, 

When the night finally ended,

They left with a chipped tooth 

And a lifetime of memories.

Then there’s some

Who haven’t hugged each other in years,

Because life pulled them apart.

And now, they rely on video calls 

And online conversations to tide them over,

Just until that next hug.

And then, there are others

Who have lost touch entirely

No phone number, no facebook

No address, no email

All that remains is the memories 

Of the good old times

From way back when.

Though vastly different

From one another.

A thread of commonality

Binds these tales together.

Each one of these instances 

Is simply one of a million chances,

To paint a picture,

Waiting to be painted.

And to tell a story,

Waiting to be told

~ Prisha Khimavat ~