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Reveries In The Second Person.

Noted Nest

Updated: Oct 3, 2024

By Aarohi Rao



sometimes you can only write poetry in the middle of the night. that’s when you can let it all out, feel your heart

race, and know it doesn’t matter.

if a tree falls, and no one sees it, did it really fall?

if you write poetry in the middle of the night, and no one reads it; is it really written?

you can only be honest with yourself at the edge of daybreak.

when dawn is near, but no one is around.

when you know sunlight will come soon, but it’s still dark.

you always tell yourself: don’t think about it, let alone write about it.

it’s not real, if you don’t articulate it.

if a tree falls, and no one is there to see it; does it even fall.

(yes, it does. you might not see it, but it fell. there is a rift between the other trees in the forest; a chasm

separating them. a gaping hole. the bees lose their home. a hummingbird flies with a seed in its wings.

another tree will grow, someday—and it will also fall, when no one is there.)

sunlight has a way of making everything seem too real.

you can never write in the day, with the windows open, sunlight bursting in. your eyes burn.

and darkness has a way of convincing you that reality does not exist.

you can convince myself of anything in the dark.

everything is true in the dark. everything can be true in the dark.

there is no one around to deny it.

(so, sit with me in the dark. tell me you love me.

you can deny it in the light of the day.

you can break my heart in the warmth of the sunlight.

but not at night. not tonight.)

a part of you is still twelve and scared.

“please hold my hand,” you want to say. “save me from this darkness.”

(you didn’t like the sunlight, though. too bright. made

your eyes burn on bad days. the heat was overwhelming.

you kept the curtains drawn, most days. )

sunlight has a way of making everything seem real.

it hurts to be alone.

but in the darkness, loneliness kills.

maybe that’s why you’re still waiting.

for someone to hold your hand on dark nights, and on sunny days, too.

you’re waiting for someone to save you from this loneliness.


the dichotomy kills, but you can’t think of anything that exists outside of it.

you’re trapped.

you are a bird trapped in a cage. a gilded cage, perhaps, but a cage nonetheless.

a butterfly stuck in its chrysalis. you are mid-transformation,

but it will never be complete.

you are at home, and you can’t ever leave.

you are trapped by forces of your own choosing.

nothing will change unless you try.

some part of you is always waiting. nothing will change.

unless.

someone tells you the world is ending tomorrow.

tells you there’s a tornado warning.

that tomorrow nothing will be the same anymore.

you want to be given permission to change your life.

you won’t say a word unless something changes.

just give yourself a chance. you’re stuck in stasis;

trapped in your life. you won’t ever retreat from this safety.

the comfort of your choices. the warmth of your horrible decisions.

unless, of course, you thought the world was ending tomorrow.

you want the freedom of no consequences too badly.

but that will never happen.

the bird stays in her cage, a canary in a coal mine,

slowly dying the further it goes. you want to fly,

but you won’t. nothing will change.


By Aarohi Rao



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