Music so loud, I forget myself. 
Everything is forgotten except 
the voice that bursts forth from 
the speakers. 

A validation of life.

I see his face in my mind's eye. 
Miles away. Perfect moments in 
our imperfect lives. The ones 
that always come back, sitting 

in the chaise lounge of my mind –
Days we fought and made up 
soon after. No distance is too much. 

Life goes on. It cruelly does. 
Waiting for no one, the doors
are shut soon after it leaves 
the platform. I’m left behind 
sometimes. And that's when 
I’m most vulnerable. 

I become the music in my life. 
Restless, soothing, melodic, cacophonic. 
I become the notes. Each string is 
a sojourn. It glides in and out of me. 

I breathe just like everybody else. 
But elsewhere. Re-visiting faces, 
tastes, feelings, smells, and a vagueness suspended in reality.


Shloka Shankar is a freelance writer and poet residing in Bangalore, India. A contributing author in over two dozen international anthologies, her works have recently appeared in Vine Leaves, Jaggery, Otoliths, The Mind[less] Muse, Literary Orphans, and so on. She is also the founding editor of the literary & arts journal, Sonic Boom.