Writing this piece was a trouble,
says the story of a lovely couple.
A dinky apartment of 2 BHK.
Each day as lively as a flower in a freshly made bouquet.
First light was marked with peck.
Followed with looking for specs on the head.
Before the office came a hug,
that was addictive as a drug.
Their love moved the machine,
and so was their routine.
Today was no different,
For the going to be parent.
The peck, the spec, the hug and lunch.
All love showered in a bunch.
An extra kiss for the bump.
Promised to be back before the moon came up.
Had to return early,
to take her to the hospital securely.
The staff started to prepare.
Sat reciting a prayer.
That happiness was no lie,
when heard his baby girl cry.
Their eyes were full,
when saw their daughter beautiful.

It is your childhood bestie on Facebook,
Miles away,
Yet just a tap away.
It's the sun shining from behind the clouds
On December mornings
While you work your *** off on your laptop
In bed in your 4-BHK apartment.
It is the soap bubble that bursts
Just with your one glance
Because memories are fragile.
They aren't made of hearts of stone
And kinetic sand.
They're made of soft toys
And fur animals.
Nostalgia is the balloon-seller you whizz by
At the traffic signal
Every morning.
It is the sweetness of strawberries
That falls drop by drop,
on your tongue,
That has forgotten to taste.
It is a subtle symphony that coffee plays
That only you can smell
Every evening.
It is the obedient smile that dances on your lips for a while
But fades away
As the smoke of dead habits take over.
It the closed window behind the curtains,
The forgotten post-its on the fridge,
The giggles trapped shut in between the pages of ******,
It is the withered rose on the tombstone
And the eulogy never spoken.
It is a teary-eyed laughter
In vacuum.
It is happy faces
In a photo frame.
It is the dictionary in a sentence,
Not something that can fit into a stance.