A river does not beg
to be remembered by the stones.
It sings as it runs,
spilling secrets into the arms of the sea,
never asking if the shore still waits.

The wind does not promise
to return to the same trees.
It carries the scent of distant rains,
leaving only whispers in the bending grass,
never pausing to hear its own name.

The moon does not wait
for the sun’s permission to shine.
It rises in silence,
casting silver over sleeping waters,
unbothered by the turning world.

Some things move,
not because they are chased,
but because they were never meant to stay.

Dear Saviour
You not only died for my freedom,
But You also loved me unconditionally.
Today, I messed up.
I know I promised You that I'd never do it again—
But I did.

In the stillness of my mind,
Thoughts flooded in.
I created scenarios.
It's safe to say
They overpowered me.

Let me admit—
My crime lies deeply in the veins of life.
Or maybe ,
let me call it the beginning of knowing.
It just happened.
I didn’t understand at the time.
The more I grew,
The clearer the picture became.

I craved that sin
More than I acknowledged it.
Before I knew it, I dined with it.
Not only did I dine with it—
But also with its companions.
The companions came in my dreams,
Teased me, left me feeling naked and used.
I woke up
And went to dine with sin again.

Dear Saviour,
I am guilty.
But at what cost—my life?
Abide with me
As You forgive and grant me ease.

To be human is to be tempted.
To be human is to know when to agree,
And when to say no.
Dear Saviour,
Look at my flesh—
It's leaking.

Forgive my iniquity.
Grant me mercy.
Don't take Your face away from me

I want to experience friendship,
Not just one sided friendship —
A two way Loving friendship.

I yearn for a moment in life ,
Where I would not have to prove my worth—
Just to be loved.

I'm tired of reaching out,
Check-in all the time,
Fixing doors I didn't break,
Closing all loopholes,
I need a break .

I crave warmth and comfort,
From just one soul,
That would root for me ,
Just as I would

I wish I didn’t miss you—
not like this,
not in the quiet where your silence screams.
I wish I moved on like you did,
graceful,
as if love never lived here.

You don’t miss me—not like I miss you.
You don’t crave me in the hollow hours,
don’t check if I breathed you in my dreams.
You’ve unlearned the rhythm of us,
while I still hum it in the dark.

I feel stuck,
my heart in rewind
while yours skipped forward
like we never happened.

You don’t call anymore.
I know.
We’re not one.
Not us.
Not now.

But I still call.
Still text.
Still ache.

And maybe what hurts the most
isn’t losing you—
but how fast
you chose
to forget me.

I didn’t notice myself changing—
until I did.
One day,
my laugh didn’t echo the same.
My eyes
stopped believing as quickly.

Childhood slipped off
like a sweater in summer
quietly,
forgotten on a chair.

Dreams I swore I’d chase
now gather dust
in unopened folders
and fading notebooks.

The mirror grew honest.
My knees, less kind.
Time,
less patient.

I miss how time once felt—
limitless.
Like I could waste it
and it would wait for me.

Now,
every birthday feels like
a sigh I didn’t mean to let out.

But here I am—
still unfolding,
still becoming,
even if it’s slower now.

Because youth doesn’t vanish,
it just leaves quietly,
with soft hands
and no apology.

I wake,
but I don’t arrive.

I brush my teeth,
scroll my phone,
drink my thoughts
with lukewarm tea.

The clock ticks,
not like a heartbeat
but like a metronome
keeping time
for a song I no longer sing.

I answer emails,
nod in meetings,
smile where it fits.
I am present,
but not here.
Every day feels
like a copy
of a copy
of a dream I once had.

I miss surprises.
I miss meaning.
I miss the version of me
that thought this would feel
like living.

But I keep going.
One task. One sigh.
One “maybe tomorrow
I’ll feel something.”

Because even machines
need maintenance.
And I
am still
trying
to stay alive.

I used to think
home had a door.
A key.
A roof that remembered my name.

But I’ve lived in places
that never made space for my silence.
Places that knew my footsteps
but not my fears.

I carry pieces of home
in chipped mugs,
in songs that smell like childhood,
in people I no longer speak to.

Sometimes, home is a voice,
cracked with laughter
in a place I had to leave.

Sometimes, it’s a moment
sunlight on tired skin,
or the way someone says
“You can rest here.”

I’ve learned
that belonging doesn’t always mean staying,
and leaving doesn’t mean forgetting.

Home isn’t always where you were born.
Sometimes,
it’s where you stopped pretending.
I don’t know if I’ve found mine yet.
But I know what it isn’t.
And that’s something.