November in December

November has come and gone,
And Instagram tells me
I did not write a single poem
During the National Poetry Writing Month.
Of whose nation?
I want to ask
But it must be our nation
It always be
As I write this in December,
My heart knows
This post will never match up
To the reels
No. It's hard to compete with
Dances at weddings,
DJ remixes of old Bollywood songs,
And food vlogs of
Jalebis dipped in rabri
For reasons, I will always need help understanding.
To get better attraction,
I should perhaps post a picture
Of something more trendy:
Like the new show, everyone is talking about
Is Wednesday it?
But I struggle to consume Netflix content,
And my poor heart is still stuck
Somewhere on the ghats of shamsaan
Where people probably still cry out for death ones
It's been years, I know.
It isn't even the film's anniversary today,
I know.
I have no reason to write this poem,
Except for one: if I don't write it,
It won't let me sleep.
If I don't write it,
It will melt in my palms
And disappear like snow
Or like love.