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I'm content
to remain local
I don't aim
to be global

that reach I'll leave
to other people
in ease I'll rest
without stress or struggle
The moon trails behind,
a pale guardian on high
chasing fleeting feet.

I think wonder is the moon’s favorite language—and children are fluent. 🌙✨
We weren't heaven
but we weren't hell, either
and maybe we're clichés
but there's nothing wrong
with plain average mediocrity.
We were ships in the night
all vision but no sight
and maybe we could've
tried harder to slide together
like puzzle pieces but we
just never fit quite right.
And they don't write songs
about what we had,
not even little humming
summer time pop hits,
but we still had it and we,
you and me,
might've been day one doomed
but we get to decide what
we meant to each other
and what we didn't and
we won't agree on what that is
but we never really agreed
on anything else, even when
we seemed to.
What's one more day
removed from never going
to happen?
Sure, we were a pit stop
a diversion on the road
to the places we were going
to finally end up, and
the memories are fuzzy
and the worth dubious
but here's that poem
you always wanted, finally.
I apologize it took me so long,
but hey, you were once
used to that, anyway.
 May 9 Shambhavi
silvervi
It’s not happening as you expected? So what? How do you know that what you wanted to happen was for the best?
Embrace the challenges. Embrace the unexpected. That way, you’re unstoppable.
I know it's hard sometimes. But we can grow so much! 💓
If I keep eating
Pies pasties and puddings
Would gravity's weak force
Be countermanded
So I could slip these
Surly bonds?
It’s Friday
Almost the weekend
Many people herald it
It’s the end of a work week
Time to rest
Enjoy
It’s Friday
Time to step back
Calm down
Breathe
Time to look forward
To something else
It’s Friday
I feel the world at
   times conspires to make true my
basic discontent.
Inspired (or more aptly directly drawn from) “The Pillow Book” by Sei Shōnagon
 May 8 Shambhavi
Pouya
All alone
by the noon,
softly humming
an old tune.

Eyes that drift
toward the moon,
air is still,
a bit too cool.

No more tools,
just quiet bloom—
a soul unfolding
in its room.
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