Some whetstones honed me,
others just scraped.
Some flints pressed on temples,
others just cracked.
Some boulders rolled on my shoulders
others just watched.
Some pebbles rained on me
others just slipped.
Some gravels bled my feet
others just pricked.
Some shards reflected me,
others just shattered.

But one marshmallow
melted in my throat.
The pink promise turned to curse,
sweetness became suffocation.

She called her dimple, a crater of charm
but the acne beside it was a constellation
She tried so hard to erase.

I saw the moon in her face,
glowing, flawed and
pulling tides in me.

You left this world on the day meant for roses
But you enter every poem I write like petals.

I remember your wallet
holding the weight of rice and survival.
Your royal chair ,reserved for those
who wronged you.
Your grayish eyes
like storm clouds that never broke.
Your plastic slippers you wore year round.
Your words and their weight.

Twenty two years, seven months, eleven days
And my eyes still flood like monsoon warnings
My throat still chokes like a pulled violin string .

Your absence is felt like a civic collapse
A callout like sirens in memory’s lapse.

Reminiscing about you is a habit,
And habits die hard.

Love Is Fireworks
A riot of color that screams across the sky,
visible from heaven but never held.
It ****** your eye, burns your sight,
etches the face into your retina like a divine warning:
"You will never see them like this again".
It's never blindness, just an overdose

Then,
Marriage turns blind
Blind to the fire you still carry.
It sees the chores, not the devotion.
It praises the schedule, not the soul.
It forgets the spark that seared your eye
and calls the ash commitment.
Marriage doesn’t ask what you feel, it assumes.
It doesn’t look, it remembers.
And memory is a poor prosthetic for vision.

Loved but still unseen
And that is the blindness
no firework could ever warn you about.

The question had already knelt, trembling with hope.
Petals curled in her grip and muffled a "no".
Hope didn’t ask again.
It just bowed and left her with the bouquet
not bitterness.

The omelette winked.
I winked back.
Cheese melted like longing,
yolk glowed like a Paris sunrise.
Steam curled like secret letters,
herbs whispered in thyme’s accent.
I called it sunshine
It called me love.
We kissed on the toast until the butter blushed.
This our love story
brief and buttery.

I am an ostrich nesting in mother's lap
head buried in shell-soft comfort,
bones tender as yolk,
hiding from the world that pecks too hard.