You say you are not enough
But a sip of you gives me
a lifetime of joy

In a dimly lit corner of a bar,
there you were
I saw you from afar
You gaze at me
I could tell you wanted to play it cool
and not seem like a fool to love
It might be too late for that
you might have lied to others
but somehow
your eyes gave it away
you spoke of adventures, places unknown,
Of mountains climbed and oceans crossed,
In your tales, a world I had never known,
Your laughter rang like a sweet reminder,
Your voice, a symphony of joy,
In that fleeting encounter,
our hearts met,
With askew roads of life,
like a shooting star
as
beautiful
as
it may be
it's shortlived
the night has to end
you ought to go
onto your new adventures
Boy I met in a bar
That is how briefly our story
ends
And that is how I would like to remember you
Oh you beautiful
Boy, I met in a bar.

You know what the problem is
Of having a big heart?
You need to break it into
Many fragments to contain it
Within yourself.

I never learned to hold today.
Always too busy watching it slip,
waiting for it to become softer,
waiting for it to turn into yesterday.

I live like a thief in reverse,
stealing moments from myself,
hoarding them in the vault of yesterday
where they gleam with the lie of permanence.

But the present?
It terrifies me.
Its edges are too sharp,
its light too blinding,
its weight too heavy for hands
that only know how to clutch at shadows.

I wish I had stayed,
just once,
long enough to feel the warmth
before it turned cold.
Long enough to call it mine
before it belonged to the past.

But here I am again,
watching today dissolve into memory,
wishing I had loved it
while it was still alive.

I don't write poetries not because I don't have words
I am harsh on myself
I am afraid I won't weave words that are
Aesthetic
That caress your heart
My poems are inadequate
Just like me
They don't speak to you
No matter how much I try
They won't strum your heart
So, I rather trap my words
in my mouth
And gulp it deep down
No words ever to be found.

If I live in your heart
Do I exist in your mind?

Laundry from last week on my bed
Stale coffee on the bed side table
Trash on one corner of my studio
I lie on this bed
Lifeless
Not dead
But not alive either.

Half of you
Half of me
So I thought
When it was all of me
And none of you

I trace my fingers
on the rims of your silhouette
As we breathe the same air
your hands reach my waist
with touch that isn't your embrace
it only takes me a second to realize
that it isn't you
and
that I am merely
moving
with the timeless chase
of my shadow
my echo
my only friend

You are this
Beautiful being
with wildflowers for eyes
ocean waves for hair
And I am just me
normal
ordinary
as
a girl can be

Wait
Not now
Maybe tomorrow
When I gather all of the broken pieces
So you don't step on the remnants of my yesterdays

You teach me a lot
You teach me
what not to do
who not to be
............................

Orange rays slouch on the leaves
trees sway to the music of
kids playing
lovers giggling
crickets chirping
With the last glimpse of daylight
nature must dance to
the beats of the evening
of togetherness
and of harmony
before the night
pulls the curtains
and applauds the day
And welcomes the
waltz of fireflies
and gentle breeze
in twilight's kiss

Dear Reader, Writer, Feeler

I don’t know where you are
By a window, light tilting in like an old song,
or on a train, the world rushing past faster than your thoughts
Maybe somewhere quieter, where the air hums with your own company
Maybe in a rotten fantasy

Wherever you are  thank you

For reading
for letting words settle inside you, heavy or light,
for holding them when they ache,
for listening to strangers who somehow know your heart

For writing
for pulling something trembling and half-born from yourself,
even when the lines come out crooked,
even when no one is watching
You make something where there was nothing
That’s a kind of miracle

For feeling
for staying soft in a world that worships sharp edges,
for carrying joy and grief in the same, open hands,
dead and alive
for letting beauty ruin you, again and again
You are proof that tenderness survives

Poetry isn’t far away
It’s not precious, not locked behind glass
It’s built from the marrow of us
from the things we say and the things we never will

It exists because you do
It matters because you make it matter

Thank you for showing up
For the words, the silences, and the spaces in between

The world feels less lonely because you’re here

With love,
A fellow traveler

When I die
Please plant my heart
So it can finally grow
For my death would
Mean the death of you
As while alive
It was stuck on you

They’ve lived with me long enough  
to know my silences  
to settle into the spaces I stopped filling  
Sadness leans against the doorframe
arms crossed like it knows I’ve been avoiding eye contact
Anger curls up by the heater
restless, shifting, but quieter than it used to be
Disappointment is sprawled across the couch
staring at the ceiling

Fear stays in the corner
knees tucked to its chest
flinching when the lights flicker
Regret drags its fingers along the table
murmuring what-ifs under its breath
Longing presses its face to the window
watching a world that never let it belong

They have been good to me, in their own way
Kept me company when I had none
Held my hands steady when the world blurred
I used to know how to hold them back
Now I can barely hold them at all

So I take them to the flea market
Set up a stall
Or two
Lay them out carefully, one by one
Line them up under flickering lights
a little display of secondhand emotions

I set the prices low
Marked down
No Refunds
Not because they are cheap
Or unwanted
but because no one pays full price  
for something heavy
something with a history
Too worn, too strange, too much

People come
They stare for a while,  
And leave

By evening, the stall is still full
Grief, longing, heartbreak
all of them waiting,  
watching people pass

By morning, they are gone
Not sold
Not taken
Just—
gone

In the grand scheme of things
I am but a whisper
My life, a fleeting breath
And that's alright

But when the weight of existence
Presses upon your soul
And you feel adrift in the vastness
Remember the small wonders

Focus on the twilight hour
Where deep blue melts into inky black
And rooftops kiss the sky

Watch leaves dance on invisible strings
Swaying to the rhythm of the breeze
The very air that gives us life

Marvel at golden sunbeams
As they filter through emerald canopies
Painting the world in dappled light

Gaze upon the harvest moon
As it pirouettes in a ripe orange sky
And indulges in celestial ballet for you

You are a note in nature's symphony
A brush stroke in the cosmic canvas
Brief, perhaps, but vital

For this moment, this breath
It is enough to simply be
Part of the grand design

And in that awareness
However fleeting it may be
There is profound beauty in being alive

Beneath the vast celestial dome
We surround the sizzling blaze
As moon wears a halo
Perhaps the night breeze is too cold
our laughter soars
giggles unwind
Flames dance recklessly
Joy blankets us
We might have forgoten
about me cold
That passes through the stitches of our clothes
we sing the song of love
tales of folklore
In the fleeting shadows of
Our dances
new adventure abides
But as the moonlight kisses the horizon's crest
our journey ends
For in those moments,
however brief we will stay a while
You & I
In this memory haven we will never say goodbye.

In stretch of vast sky
Remnants of yesterday's sunset
Glistens through the rain
Some stale old blue
And some fresh coat of orange
Naked trembling trees
As bare as
A newly born baby
Misty clouds
The rain is not pouring yet
But gentle taps on my shoulders it is rattling in the distance
Should I wait for it here?
Or meet it halfway ?
In no time
It's passed me with no embrace
Like the sky has ceased to exist above me
I am this hollow being
With no end in sight
Drifting through space of cold
nothingness

At this rate
We might die of exploding heart
trying to fit something so vast
in something as small as
fist of our hands

She sits by the light
half-awake, half-dreaming
the kind of morning where silence
feels like a conversation

Her hair, undone by the wind
and her eyes
they hold a language deeper than words
a pause between thoughts
a moment before the rain

There’s something in her gaze
not just beauty, but a knowing,
like she’s seen the sun rise a thousand times
and still finds it worth watching

She wears the weight of the world
like an old sweatshirt
loose, familiar,
but never quite forgotten

And I wonder, does she know?
That the way she exists
unfiltered, unbroken
is a kind of poetry
no one can write down

I used to write about you,
Now I write about me.
You were obsessed with yourself,
But it seems the world agrees

For my poetries are unread
My words wilt down
I am sick of watering my verses
Only for them to
Turn frail and brown

Unnoticed
In the background
Don't wake them up
they wont be kind
They somehow
Grew their own mind

They shuffle and jolt,
Unraveling slow,
Transforming into something
I no longer know

What’s a mind without a heart,
If not a cruel embrace?
You gave birth to these words—
So don’t blame me for their grace.

The whirlpool of emotions pulls me under,
and I am tired of treading water
I am tired of trying to stay afloat
I am just a girl who wonders of what ifs
I am just a girl who feels too much,

who knows where you are hurt,
even when you haven’t said it out loud
Maybe if I learned to hold myself a little gently,
it wouldn’t ache this way
Maybe happiness isn’t built from sadness,

no matter how familiar it feels
I am just a girl who wants a quiet place,
to love and be loved,
without asking for it
I am just a girl, still searching

Under a sky cloaked in soft gray,
the rain falls in quiet whispers,
tapping on leaves, thrusting them down
pooling in quiet corners,
weaving songs only stillness can hear.

I sit by the window,
watching the world blur at its edges,
each drop shaped like lens
that bends light and time.

And yet, somewhere deep within,
I wait.
Not for the rain to stop,
but for the light
to thread its way
through the heavy clouds.

I imagine it now—
a soft, golden breath
amongst the blue
warming the earth,
awakening hidden colors
that slept beneath the gray.

Until then, I let the rain be,
let it paint the world in quiet tones
As the sky moans
And when sun comes,
Not if
For even the longest rains
must yield to the sky’s
golden embrace
make space for this heart
to find solace

It wasnt the endless call
That made me fall
Or your unbroken gaze
That you gave
like haze
Amidst the rainy hills
Is it the love that you ask
Or something you mask
Your ordinary eyes
No longer so ordinary
And somehow that makes me worry
You and I come from two different worlds
And somehow they swirl
With ticking time
Each second makes you more divine
Before this whirlpool drowns
And the world frowns
I must tell you how I feel
Would that make you kneel?
Or would you peel?
Unveil all
That you masked
And say you never asked
Not for love
As I sit there
Numb
And
Cold
With no one to hold
While you escape your
Temporary mold

For all the things you have said to me
To let me know you love me
The one that I love the most
Isnt that
I am your moon
Or star
Irony is
Its sans words
Its when you look at me
Like
Just being me is enough for you
I dont need to be
the most beautiful girl in the world
For you to fall and stay in love
With me

The sun drifts through the window,
dust motes floating like thoughts half-formed.
Morning hums with routine, soft and slow,
coffee brews, the sky yawns,
waiting for me to step into its pace.

A clock ticks, each second
pulls the day forward—
busy, but not filled.
I move through it, a bit like a dreamer
on autopilot, watching the world
without quite being in it.

Conversations blur,
laughter echoes but doesn't stick,
emails come and go like the wind.
Lunch, then more work,
a few moments stolen for myself,
writing or scrolling, feeling
the weight of being here,
not quite anywhere else.

Then evening falls,
the sky's colors spilling like ink,
painting the world with quiet.
I sit in the transit bus,
no rushing,
letting time slip like water
through my fingers,
I miss the sunset
the starry night.

The projector hums,
a distant knockoff
starry sky unfolds
I let the lights flicker
as the music wraps around me,
Beach House playing  
But not in a Beach House—
their sound echoes
through my room,
the ocean I never see
rolling in waves of melody,
familiar and distant,
like a dream that never quite comes true.

The night ends,
a story without resolution,
just a pause
before tomorrow begins again.

I would give you my slice of life, but
it’s like trying to hand you the horizon
a stretch of color that can never fit in your palm
You’d ask for details,
and I’d offer the taste of rain on the skin,
the way the world holds its breath before thunder,
a pause that fills your lungs like forgotten words.

There are mornings I wake up
and the air feels like an old letter,
creases worn smooth by time
I would give you that too,
but how do you hold a memory
that hasn’t yet figured out what it is?

You would want to know about the silence
between the seconds
the space where nothing happens
and everything happens
I’d give you that,
if I could explain how it feels
to sit with a half-made thought.

I can only offer fragments
a fleeting look in someone’s eyes,
the quiet rhythm of a clock
refusing to rush when you want it to
the way a day slips from morning to evening
I would give you my slice of life,
but all I have are these pieces,
and none of them are quite enough
quite complete
to make you feel what it’s like
to live inside them

I’m sat in the window seat
Cool against my head,
vibrating softly with the hum of the tracks

Outside
snapshots of other people’s lives
A woman brushing crumbs from a table,
a child leaping over a puddle,
Grandmas saying goodbyes
Some sun,
some rain
Some days that feel like nights

The train moves forward,
always forward
No signs,
no names,
just a blur of motion and color.

Passengers shift around me,
luggage tucked under seats,
eyes full of somewhere
Their faces carry a quiet certainty,
as if they all agreed on the destination
before boarding

But I didn’t
I hold a pass stamped Nowhere.
No stop to look forward to
No reason for being here
except that I already am

I can’t get off
The train doesn’t stop for questions

There’s a tightness in my chest
that rises with each tunnel,
each bend,
each hollow station passed
And it’s not the motion that makes me feel sick
it’s the stillness underneath it
This strange dissonance
of moving so fast
yet going nowhere

I thought maybe the journey would reveal something
But the longer I sit,
the more the windows reflect back only myself
faint, flickering,
unmoved

Just headed
Nowhere
that never arrives.

Between Blur and Distance
The light scatters, soft and indifferent,

Bokeh blooms behind me - city lights, street lamps,

or maybe just the sun breaking on restless water
It doesn’t matter what
Only that it’s blurred
Only that it doesn’t ask to be seen clearly
Somewhere beyond the edges of this frame,

Point Nemo waits
An oceanic nowhere,
a place so far from touch

that even the waves forget they’re supposed to come back
No one stands there
No one ever did
It is a coordinate without a witness
just like my breaking heart
I wonder,
am I the subject or the blur?

The focus or the absence?
I am clearly the point nemo
sea around me people with faces not focused
or who dont focus on me
I am boken
or
Broken
or maybe both
or somewhere in between

I lost you once
when your voice turned to silence

Then again,
when even the silence stopped feeling like you

mornings are
 hazy green.

not fog.
just something thick

i can’t walk through
without forgetting

what i was doing.

i missed the magnolia bloom.
again.

it’s always

just over.

like it was waiting for me
to look away.

i clench my jaw

until it breaks.
rip my heart out of the chest
only to sew it back again
maybe it’s

placebo happiness

through sadness

just enough feeling

to not feel numb.

just enough

to trick myself

into thinking

this is living.

sometimes

i tell myself

everyone hates me.
not dramatically.
just

like a fact.

like a quiet truth

that’s easier
than
well
uncertainty.

maybe this is
diet joy.
lite living.
a knockoff feeling
from the back shelf
that still gets the job done.
placebo soul.

but lately,
i’m scared of being alone.
the shape of my voice.
it knows me
too well
too precisely,
and wants
something
i forgot how to give.

this feels brighter
as if the light
has remembered
how to touch skin

the colors of our childhood have come back
crayon blue skies
the chirping
the colors of the flowers
and the smell
oh the smell

not exactly as they were
everything feels like return
but not quite return

and still, underneath it all
a strange quiet
not absence
as if we’ve died so many little deaths
the body has stopped keeping count

this ending feels like
a well-rehearsed ritual
the last page of a book
we wrote in pencil
softly erasing itself
while we smile and say,
yes
this is how it always was
and was always going to be

what a gentle way to disappear
by becoming more visible
by returning, not to youth
but to the myth of it
and letting it wash over us
one final time

like a sky too blue
to believe in
but still, we look up

in another life
i hand myself the softness i craved
the hush of a nursery,
tiny socks folded in drawers,
the scent of baked cookies
and giggles echoing down a hallway i built
with both hands and every part of my heart.

in another life,
i let myself be her
the one who kneels to tie shoelaces
and learns their favorite video game
just to lose on purpose.
the mom who never forgets a bedtime story
even when the world outside forgets
everything else.

but not in this one.
not here.
not when the sky falls in headlines
and safety feels like a myth
told to children too young to know better.

my mother still holds hope
she says:
you’d be a good one.
you’d love so fully, they’d bloom.
but she doesn’t see
that my love is the very reason
i won’t.

because to carry them
into this chaos
this fractured, loud, unforgiving place
feels like betrayal
dressed in lullabies.

so i stay empty,
not from lack
but from a fullness of care
so deep it aches.

and maybe
in another life
i will not love them
by leaving them behind.

Cut me wide,
let the truth spill out

This isn't mercy,
it's the cost of doubt


I didn’t break the way you planned

I held the fire in my hands
You wanted quiet,

I roared instead

A hurricane

Inside my chest

You called it peace when you walked away

But I still wake with your name

Like a scar behind my teeth

Like something
I can't rinse clean


You left, but you still remain

A bruise I sing through every day
I wasn't still
I shook the ground

You wanted shadows,
I gave sound

No apology for thunder skies

I never learned to whisper lies

No soft goodbye,
no fading line

Just silence dressed up as divine

But peace should never taste like ash
And I still carry what we had

You called it peace when you turned away

But I still wake with your name

Not just a bruise, not just a sting

It’s carved into my everything

You left, but I remain

With your storm beneath my skin

You were a season I couldn’t keep,
a moment carved in sunlight,
fading as the earth turned.
Yet, even now,
when the echoes of your name
have settled into quiet,
you remain, not as longing,
but as a breath I hold
when the world feels too loud.

It isn’t you I ache for,
but the colors you brought—
soft golds of laughter,
stormy grays of understanding,
the blue of your quiet courage
painting the edges of my days.

When I stand in someone else’s orbit,
a different warmth touching my face,
you’re not a shadow between us
but a constellation far away,
a map of where I’ve been,
not where I’m going.

I love you still,
not as the dream I once wove,
but as the truth I found in knowing you—
the way you reminded me
to believe in kindness,
to carry hope like a torch
even when the wind howled.

Forever isn’t a chain;
it’s the way I smile
when a song catches me unaware,
the way the scent of rain
carries me back to your laughter,
the way I see pieces of you
in the courage of strangers.

You are not my forever love,
but you are my forever lesson,
a memory that walks beside me,
not in longing, but in gratitude.

everyone is becoming
everything is becoming

the grass wakes up in pulses of green

trees stretch into themselves again

birds rehearse joy like a familiar script
and
I
a bare tree
not dead
just undecorated
too naked amongst the luscious
I sit in the middle of blooming

like a teenager who missed the cue

my skin doesn’t feel new


the light touches everything with tenderness

except me

skipping over
like I’m not ready

or not worth

or not

yet

maybe this is my season of pause
maybe
but maybe
I’m just behind
and it’s hard
watching the world dress itself in celebration
while I stand here

unbuttoned

unfinished

unbecoming

We live in the spaces
between what is and what could be—
in the pause before the next step,
where the air is full of everything
we forgot to say

I write this in the quiet spaces,
where the world’s noise fades, and only you remain
I’m learning, slowly,
that love doesn’t always scream;
sometimes it whispers in the dark,
in the shared silence of a moment,
in the glance that says everything without a word

There’s a comfort in this quiet,
in knowing that we don’t need to shout
to prove what we feel
You have a way of making silence speak louder than anything,
of making every inch of space
between us feel like home

I don’t need to see it all at once
I don’t need to understand every part
What matters is this—
the stillness where you
and I are

Yours,
Lover

"Beware!" they cry, the labels shouting,
in bold black ink on every carton,
a silent dirge for our carefree days.
Caffeine? Cancer. Baby shampoo?
Cancer. The air? Oh yes, even the air.

"Why stop there?" I mutter, peeling a banana.
Does it whisper secrets of formaldehyde
as I break its spine?
"This banana is known to the state of California
to cause despair in lab rats," it might say,
if it could speak past the peel.

"Prop 65 follows you," says my toaster.
It sparks. "You are glowing,
a walking hazard zone,
dripping BPA-laced tears into your coffee."

"Not everything has a label," I reply.
The tree outside—free of warnings,
branches unapologetic as they sway.
But wait. I catch a whiff of its resin.
That familiar tang of maybe-malignancy.

"Your tree, too," the toaster smirks,
"Nature is not immune.
Your lungs inhale its carcinogenic bouquet.
California sees all,
labels all, fears all."

I exhale sharply.
"One day," I snap, "I'll wake up,
look at my hand, and see
‘WARNING: This skin
contains trace amounts of existence,
a substance known to cause death
in 100% of cases.’”

The toaster blinks. "Too late.
You already knew that."

The tune stays, persistent,
a ghost in my mind,
hovering just out of reach—
not a song,
not yet,

just a rhythm I hum
into the hollow of memory

I try everything:
apps that listen,
algorithms that promise
I hum and hum,

my voice shaky, uneven,
but no machine knows the language
of longing
I scour playlists,

search through archives,
type fragments into search bars,

grasping for something
I’m not sure even exists

Each failure makes the tune sharper,
louder, crueler
Years pass, and it lingers
A quiet ache folded
into the back of my thoughts
I stop searching,
but it doesn’t stop following
Then one day, in a café,
the song finds me
It slips from the speakers,
so soft I almost miss it
And then—there it is,
every note, every beat,
the rhythm I have carried for so long
I freeze
The world tilts as I listen,
fingers trembling on my cup
I am there,

back in the mustard fields,
the mango trees,

the laughter
I don’t cry,
but something deep inside me shifts,
like a door opening
to let in the light
The song
The song
The song
is Real

The sky is heavy with silence
No god speaks tonight
Only the breathless hush of space
spilling into a world
trying not to fall apart

You sit with your knees pulled to your chest,
the sand colder than you thought it’d be
Everything feels like it’s waiting

You try to remember the last time
you truly wanted to stay
Not survive
Not distract
But stay

The waves keep folding into themselves,
and the air smells like salt and sleep
You wonder how the world keeps moving
with so many people lost in their own weather

You think of the way your mother said your name
when she wasn’t angry,
the way a stranger once held a door
and meant it

You think of someone you used to love
and how their absence
taught you everything
about presence

And it hits you
this world, so fragile it cracks under headlines,
still dares to spin
Children still grip their father’s fingers
as if the universe begins in that gesture
Somewhere, someone writes their first poem,
believing it might save them

Maybe it’s not God,
or gravity,
or some grand machine

Maybe it’s
a girl humming a Beach House song
in the back of a half-empty bus,
two people who don’t speak the same language
still laughing at the same dog chasing waves

Maybe it’s this
a soft defiance against collapse,
the way a soul leans forward,
even bruised
Even tired
Maybe it’s the quiet decision
to reach out
one more time

And maybe that’s enough?