She is a butterfly...
hiding under sunspots.
He’s a gecko,
lurking in that velvet corner where the light forgets to go.

She is chaos—
he’s the eye of her storm.

They were born from deep sea vents,
rose up to the skies like they meant to crack open clouds,
pull humans into a frenzy
no weather pattern could predict.

She calls it life.
He? He just stares into death,
like it’s a familiar hallway with flickering lights.

The question of origin?
It’s always that stupid finger—
pointing,
blaming,
laughing at the moment they both thought:
"Wait… was any of it even real?"

Hey, ****.
It’s all tiny signals,
she read.

"It’s all eternity,"
he preached,
like a god with a broken clock.

They walked through each other’s ghost stories,
talked all night in a language made of
fake memories,
false starts,
and déjà vus shaped like abandoned houses.

They locked eyes—
those traitorous, trembling eyes—
and whispered vows
to nights that haven’t happened yet.
To days that only those **** aliens have seen.

Yeah. Those aliens.
The ones living on the edge
of the universe’s bubble,
eating popcorn,
watching this bubble bursting program
on cosmic cable.

And when the light consumed the darkness,
when the tiny capsules cracked open like old seeds—
they were left raw.
Naked.
Shivering in the gift-wrapped curse
called "Time."

She ran away.
He walked away.

Moments…
split.
Time…
parted.

While million-dollar math problems
sit unsolved on cluttered desks,
watched over by smoke-drenched visionaries
who know something’s wrong
but can’t solve heartbreak
with equations.

This is the program.
It’s always been the program.
We’re just signals,
wrapped in skin,
playing roles,
in a show
with no rehearsal
and no pause button.

So if you’re watching,
dear alien—
just know…

We improvised the whole **** thing.

Poem Title: This Isn’t Me
By: Nimisha PS

Poem:

They called me nothing, like I don’t matter,
Laughed at my quiet, my broken chatter.
But they never knew what I hold inside,
The pain I carry, the tears I’ve tried to hide.

I don’t wear my hurt as a badge or sign,
But it's there when the world’s unkind.
Every scar is a mark of fight,
Proof I’m still here, even in the night.

So don’t judge me by what you see,
These wounds, they’re real—but they’re part of me.
I might fall, but I’ll stand my ground,
With unfaded wounds, my strength is found.

Some days I break in silence so loud,
Smiling while sinking beneath the crowd.
But even in pieces, I try to rise—
Hiding my wars behind steady eyes.

Those who have conquered
    the most acute pain
    are immune to every adversity:
    life's most vital lesson they have learnt

I choose resilience
over strength:
it holds me up better
and I'm made always consistent

That freshly planted bush
Dries in the afternoon sun
Filtering through an overgrown pear tree
Loaded with an unpicked harvest

Were he younger
He would climb the tree
Were he younger, he would
Enter the house and kiss
The woman
Who says she loves him

That freshly planted bush
Might not make it
Through the Fall
Wilting and dying before Winter

Were he younger
The plant would not die
Were he younger
What would the plant become

Written in 2018
The plant has survived

If that were true,
Then the probabilistic element
Would be that of environment inhabited.

The life we live.

Then the deterministic element
Would be that which we are building,
The mind. The neural structure of our brains.

How we choose to live it.

So that "thought" only resonated
To that which was properly crystallized,
By ways & means of communication
Through each axis. Dendrite, neuron, axon, synapse.

Matters on the formation of our matter.