Aryaman Kakkar's Archive

I want to see your eyes. I need to give a name to the irises that have haunted me from scrounged poetry and forgotten words.   When I read, it reminds me of you; a silhouette belonging to a soul I have never had the pain of meeting. You are there when I'm up at three in the morning, scrolling through the poets who write with such lovely agony. And for once, I'm looking forward to getting drunk on yours. Chaos, scars; I can trace them along the backs of my hands, in my memories. They remind me that someone can love them for what they are; dust smattered divinity forgotten in shambling basements, decrepit crypts. But, unlike most who search for their treasures in their grandmothers’ attics, I will wait for you. Long before you, I chased lovers with my words, too blinded to see that they never actually started the conversation. So, I will wait for you. You are not mine to find, but for both of us to chance upon. And oh, how beautifully we ...

  It's funny how we fall for people who are nothing like us. I know I don't want my boyfriend to be introverted and bookish. I want him to not be afraid, to be able to come up to timid me, all calm, and say, ''Look, I think you're really cute and I'm going to kiss you right here, right now.' Now, I KNOW, I KNOW that my sanity would have a meltdown and go berserk screaming into the void. My insanity would be quieter. It would tell me to grab him and whisper, ''So kiss me. Don't stand here talking about it. Kiss me softly; I’m scared of how this goes. Grab me with hard consuming lips because you've been addicted to something you've never tasted. Run your hands in my hair, hold my face do something! Don't let them idle. That's not what they are there for. Breathe on me. Look at me with your ripe pomegranate lips and feast on my body with your starving eyes.'' Because young love is underrated. People say we don't kno...

Yes I am desperate. I am desperate to be understood and to be embraced in a way that is different. Not tight, or loving, or warmth. Just different.  Something like trembling hands that curl around the small of my back, afraid to touch me, afraid of breaking me. But at the same time he knows I’m not some fragile thing always kept at the back of a glass case. He knows that. I am dying to be seen. To be seen with eyes that are terrified of what they behold and hungry like a blind beast experiencing Technicolor for the first time in a lifetime. I will gladly be a feast for starved irises and hands that feel every contour, map every crevice I have to offer inside and out. I want to be felt differently. Something unlike friendly gestures and familial hugs. I want to be your object of desire and a cuddle buddy in bed. Believe me there is nothing better than being under the covers with someone’s hands holding your own, listening to each other’s heartbeats. This is my way of love. ...