Some rest in a lover’s trembling hands,
whispering vows too soft to last.
Some lie upon a quiet chest,
a farewell kiss from petals past.

Some twirl free in the morning breeze,
brushing the sky in fleeting flight.
Some are pressed between old pages,
holding echoes of moonlit nights.

Some are worn behind an ear,
a fragrant crown for fleeting youth.
Some are crushed beneath careless feet,
forgotten before they bloomed.

Some wilt alone, unseen, unsung,
fading into the earth once more.
Yet all have known a moment’s grace,
a touch, a tear, a love once pure.

For every petal tells a story,
each bloom a breath, a life, a chance—
and whether scattered, held, or broken,
every flower still must dance.

— 🌸

In the chatter of magpies, beneath the sky so blue,
Nishu's words dance, and the world feels new.
"In the afternoon, below a grey blue sky" —
Her poetry, a song, as the moments fly.

"I hear the chatter of the magpies," she writes,
A symphony of joy, a vision in the lights.
We, too, find solace in those quiet calls,
Where nature whispers, and the soul enthralls.

Your “Collectibles,” a treasure chest deep and true,
Each line a memory, a fragment of you.
"Some may call it clutter, junk," they say,
But your words are more—the treasures we display.

"Welcome Solitude," a gentle space,
Where poetry breathes, with its calm embrace.
Like your lines, Nishu, we, too, find peace,
In the rhythm of life, where the soul’s release.

"In every flower, there is a poem," you write,
And in your work, a garden blooming bright.
Your words, like petals, unfold with grace,
And in your verses, we find our place.

Nishu, your poetry is the light of the day,
A guide through the hours, a warm ray.
Thank you for your words, your art so fine,
For showing us beauty through your poetic line.

She never asked him to stay.

Loving Loki was like chasing smoke—always slipping through her fingers just when she thought she had him. He would be there one night, draped over her couch with his usual smirk, spinning a dagger between his fingers. And by morning, he’d be gone, leaving only the ghost of his laughter behind.

It was a game between them. He would disappear. She would pretend not to care.

"Dramatic exits are your specialty, huh?" she teased once.

"Would you prefer I linger?" he had shot back, tilting his head.

She didn’t answer.

But then came the night he didn’t disappear. Not entirely.

That night, when she woke, groggy and reaching for water, she found something on her nightstand. A dagger—his dagger. The handle worn, the blade still warm from where he’d been holding it.

Loki never left things behind.

Her fingers ghosted over the metal. A message, a promise, unspoken.

And just like that, the rules of their game changed.

It became a habit.

When he was gone, the dagger would stay. When he was there, it would vanish from the nightstand and return to his belt. She never mentioned it. Neither did he. But every time she woke and saw it resting there, something in her chest softened.

Until one day, it didn’t return.

Days passed. Then weeks.

She told herself she didn’t care. That he had always been this way. But still, her fingers reached for the spot where it should have been. Empty.

And that was the night she finally broke the rule.

Standing at her window, looking at the stars, she whispered, “Just one more trick, please.”

As if the universe had been waiting for those words, a flicker of green shimmered in the air behind her.

"Missed me, darling?"

She turned, but this time, she didn’t tease. Didn’t joke. Instead, she closed the space between them, pressed a hand to his chest, and whispered back,

"Don’t vanish again."

For once, he didn’t.

She had a habit of noticing the moon.

No matter where we were—walking down a crowded street, sitting in a café, or even mid-conversation—her eyes would flicker upward the moment the sky darkened.

"Look at that," she’d whisper, pointing like it was some rare discovery, like the moon hadn’t been there every night before. But for her, it was always new. Always worth a pause.

I never paid much attention to it before her. The moon was just... the moon. A constant, unchanging presence. But when she looked at it, she saw something else—something soft, something worth noticing.

One night, we were walking home, our hands brushing but never quite holding. She stopped suddenly, tilting her head back, eyes shining in the silver glow.

"Doesn’t it make you feel small?" she asked.

I looked at her instead of the sky. "No," I said. "Not when I’m with you."

She smiled, shaking her head at my answer, but she never said anything more. Just slipped her arm through mine, and we walked on.

Time passed. She isn’t here anymore. Not beside me on evening walks. Not stopping mid-sentence to point at the sky.

But the moon is.

And now, without meaning to, I find myself looking up every night.

Out of habit. Out of memory.

Out of love.

She had this habit of stealing my pens. Not in a careless way—no, she’d always take them with this playful smirk, twirling them between her fingers as if claiming them as her own.

"You have too many," she’d say, slipping one into her bag.

"And you never have one," I’d counter, watching her tuck it away like a prize.

It became our thing. Every time we met—at coffee shops, libraries, or even just in my car—she’d end up with one of my pens. And every time I pretended not to mind, but secretly, I started carrying extras. Just for her.

One evening, as she sat across from me, doodling absentmindedly on a napkin with yet another stolen pen, I asked, "Do you even use them, or do they just pile up somewhere?"

She grinned, biting her lip. "Maybe I just like taking something of yours with me."

I didn’t respond, just watched her trace circles on the napkin, my stolen pen spinning between her fingers.

Months later, we drift apart. Not suddenly—just a slow, quiet unraveling. The messages become shorter, the calls less frequent. And then, one day, there’s only silence.

One afternoon, I’m looking for something in my desk drawer when I see it—a pen. Not mine. Hers. The only one she ever left behind.

I pick it up, twirling it between my fingers the way she used to. I don’t even try to use it. I just hold it there, wondering if, somewhere in her bag, my pens still exist. If, in some quiet moment, she finds one and remembers me too.

Some people don’t take things to keep them. They take them to hold onto a feeling.

And maybe, just maybe, she held onto me too.

We are at a café we often visit, sitting across from each other, the same way we always do. She loves their cinnamon biscuits, the kind that crumbles at the touch but melts in your mouth with warmth. She always saves the last one for later, wrapping it in a tissue and slipping it into her bag.

Today, she does the same. But as she reaches for her bag, it tips slightly, and the biscuit drops. A tiny crack runs through it. She sighs, about to leave it, but I pick it up, carefully brushing off invisible crumbs, and hand it back.

"Still good," I say.

She looks at me, amused, and shakes her head before tucking it away again.

I don’t know why I remember that moment so much. Maybe because it was just like us—delicate but still holding together.

Months later, I’m searching for something in the backseat of my car when I find it. A tiny, forgotten bundle of tissue paper tucked between the seats. The biscuit. The one she saved that day.

She isn’t here anymore. Not in this car, not in my life. But the biscuit is. A fragile piece of something that once was.

I hold it in my palm for a moment, then unwrap it gently. It's crumbled now, beyond saving. But I don’t throw it away. Not yet. Instead, I close my fist around it, just for a second, before letting it slip between my fingers.

Some things aren’t meant to last forever. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t once whole.

The night hums a quiet tune,  
a melody lost between stars and sighs.  
Moonlight spills like silver ink,  
writing forgotten dreams on my skin.  

I chase echoes of a name I never spoke,  
woven in the hush of the wind.  
Footsteps dissolve in the sand,  
yet the tide carries them back—  
again, and again.  

Time bends where longing lingers,  
soft hands reaching for yesterday’s touch.  
But love, like mist,  
fades before fingers can hold it.  

So I gather the whispers,  
press them into my ribs,  
let them bloom beneath my breath—  
a garden of moments,  
eternal and unseen.