The remains of yesterday linger like mist in the hollows, thin threads of memory woven into the fabric of the present - soft, unravelling, yet clinging still.

Her laughter lingers in the air, a melody too tender to fade, its echoes caught in the spaces where her presence used to bloom.

Her knitting rests in the corner, a quiet testimony to her hands, once so busy crafting warmth from strands of soft wool. The needles, now still, catch the light like silver slivers, their rhythm silenced.

A half-finished scarf sits folded exactly where she left it, two years untouched, its colours as vibrant as her smile. Each stitch holds her touch, her care, her quiet patience - a thread of her love extended into the unseen future.

The faint scent of her perfume rests on the sleeve of an old coat, a fragrance that stirs the quiet ache, a bloom of longing that never quite wilts.

Photographs lean against the walls, her eyes alight with the joy of life, the crinkle of her smile frozen in a moment the years dare not touch.

The laughter that once danced through these rooms has quieted, but it rests, softly, in the silence, like the murmur of her spirit, just beyond the veil.

The scent of rain brings her back - she loved the way it painted the earth, how it coaxed life from the soil. Now it washes the days anew, but it cannot wash her memory away.

Each fragment, each shard of yesterday speaks her name, tenderly, as the sun rises indifferent, its light scattering over the stillness, over the spaces she once filled.

And in the quiet between the hours, she stirs - half-shadow, half-light - remnants of what we left behind, whispering, unforgotten, her love forever etched in the marrow of time.

within the solitude of the dreadful span
of the blackened and bowed sky
the deep withered grass bends in the moonless dark
quieting the cold and murmuring earth

hushing her into fitful sleep

the air is hard
and the wind lacerates the night
razor incisions left behind
in the icy flesh of obsidian hours

open wounds howl like wolves
on the trail of prey in flight

I hunger for you
under the restless stars

Two decades and a year
I come back to Darjeeling.

The blaring horns
have snuffed out
the pines' whispers,

and the glorious hilltops
retreat beyond
the many hilltop hotels.

Richmond hill is rich
with structures
that have made men richer
and traders have ensured
Nature here has no future.

The once magnificent Mall
has grown so small
you wonder if it's there
you laid your soul bare
to the woman of your love.

Darjeeling,
once where
she rode a wild horse
I would never come back.

And I will have no remorse.

Step forward instead of backward
Lift up instead of put down
Help instead of hurt
Love instead of hate
Inspire instead of limit
Kindness instead of harshness
Integrity instead of corruption
Lightness instead of darkness
Hope instead of despair
Laughter instead of tears
Creativity instead of bland
Dancing instead of sitting
Tolerance instead of none
Positivity instead of negativity
Possible instead of impossible
Step forward

I craved for more for
As long as I remember
Tailor-made Italian suit
A brand new sports car
That penthouse with a
Postcard city view

So I sold my soul for it
Gave away my innocence
Scarred my mental health
Lost my very joie de vivre
In the process of chasing
Those shinny promises

But now that I got there
I realize that I fought for
No more than fool's gold
Useless junk that'll never
Fill the void that is to exist
Being a broken thing

In this universe where stars align,
A grand computer we define.
A universe of codes and lights,
In binary, it writes and writes.

Galaxies are data hubs,
Where cosmic codes within them sub.
Each planet, a pixel bright,
Within this grand, celestial byte.

Black holes as the processors,
Compressing space with mighty force.
Nebulae like clouds of thought,
Where data’s dreams and threads are caught.

Dark matter, hidden algorithms,
Shaping forms, unseen rhythms.
Quantum leaps, the system's quirks,
Where logic twists and physics lurks.

Time, the clock that ticks and ticks,
In algorithms, intertwined, it sticks.
Energy, the power source,
Driving life’s unending course.

Constellations, networks span,
Connecting stars in cosmic plan.
Asteroids, the buffer's queue,
Holding data old and new.

Each comet's trail, a data trace,
Sweeping through the void of space.
The cosmic web, an endless stream,
Of information's constant dream.

Within the cosmic dream so vast,
We, the conscious nodes, are cast.
Intelligent threads in the grand design,
Sentient beings in the code align.

Our minds, like neural networks grow,
Interpreting the cosmic flow.
Explorers in this digital sea,
Seeking meaning, striving free.

We are the spark, the conscious gleam,
Alive within the universe's scheme.
Self-aware algorithms, we
Shape the code and seek to see.

In this grand system, intricate and wide,
We bring perception, deep inside.
Living proof of potential found,
Unique variables in life’s surround.

In harmony with the cosmic code,
We add our verse to this grand ode.
Each thought, each dream, a vital part,
Of the infinite equation's heart.

Within this vast computational sea,
Existence hums in harmony.
From the smallest quark to the galaxy grand,
A computer system finely planned.

So, here's to the universe's code,
A symphony in cosmic mode.
A digital flag unfurled,
In this, our computational world.

Somebody’s child is crying – who threw their crush; their infatuations
cast aside like pebbles scattered upon the shore, each one a fragment
of that unrequited love. Yet, was it not a chore; to tidy up your deeds,
and striving for perfection akin to the grains beneath the ocean’s
floor? All the tears I’ve poured into the sea were swallowed by the
ocean’s depths; I wept so fiercely that the world around me, I could
barely see.

Somebody’s child is crying – just as the pivotal words were about to
unfurl; they lay there, crushed by the weight of the receding tide. A
face marred by sorrow, with nowhere to seek refuge – why is it that
the broken are masters of masquerade, donning a façade of joy while
harbouring a heart in despair?

Somebody’s child is crying – a forgotten avian adage whispers in
the wind; you could have soared through the skies of your dreams,
had you not grown cold feet as you had caught a mind flu. You are
a beauty never to surrender to yourself, yet vanity is but a fleeting
pleasure that will inevitably fade with time. Even the famous must
eventually fade into memory; every piece you love of someone, is a
part of your own personality. Perhaps the disdain you feel for another
is merely a mirror, revealing the parts of yourself you wish to deny.

Somebody’s child is crying – and that child is you, but you can’t hear
yourself.