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I was just a misspelled word
you so easily erased
from the notebook of your life.

                  
Now,
how do I ever erase you —
the most beautiful poem of my heart?
Far far away from you

in some corner of the universe

somewhere in the unknown —

is there any place

I can call home?

A place of peace and quiet,  

where happiness also lives.
When new becomes old

it loses its value.

When old becomes ancient

it becomes priceless.
Love doesn't discriminate
it breaks all barriers
touches every heart.

Love has no limit
no boundaries
it flows endlessly like time.
​गूंजता है धड़कनों में
आज भी तेरा ही नाम
जैसे खूबसूरत सा नगमा कोई |
वो दिल जिसे फूलों की तरह
सजाया था कभी
टूट कर बिखर गया क्यों ?
​ख़ता क्या हुई मुझसे
जो दिल तोड़ कर चल दिए
एक बार भी मुड़कर
क्यों न देखा कभी ?
Stained are teeth, and fingers yellow,
Softly whispered lies we keep.
Smoke unfurls in breath so mellow,
Promising but sinking deep.

Coiling tendrils, soft and clever,
Lull the mind in fleeting grace.
Cinder ghosts that warm, yet sever,
Leave their embers on the face.

Every spark—a pledge unwinding,
Every drag—a weight we bear.
Sworn to comfort, yet confining,
Clinging to a thinning air.
Nicotine is a tightly structured, lyrical poem that explores the tension between fleeting comforts and the greater aspirations we often neglect. Using nicotine as both a literal and metaphorical device, the poem examines the small indulgences we cling to—despite knowing their cost—drawing a parallel to the broader human tendency to accept self-deception for the sake of temporary relief.

Through vivid imagery of smoke, stained fingers, and fading embers, the poem evokes a sense of quiet resignation, underscoring the slow erosion of will beneath a comforting but insidious habit. The rhythmic AB meter reinforces the hypnotic cycle of desire and consequence, mirroring the way these comforts lull us into complacency.

At its core, Nicotine is a confrontation—a mirror held up to our daily rationalizations, asking whether we truly seek change or merely the illusion of control. The introspective tone invites readers to reflect on their own vices, however small, and consider what they may be sacrificing in the name of fleeting ease.
The stars were not to blame
Nor the ocean between us
Or even that dreadful place
We used to call home

It was only you and me
Always a little too wrong
And maybe just a little
Too late

— The End —