Here is my heart, shrouded in thick

cloaks and fortified behind tall walls.

It now sleeps in the lap of darkness

snug and sheltered from the unknown.

The palace of ice is its home and

everything around it is frozen, damp, impenetrable.

Not even the warmest sunshine could get

this far and deep into the realm of murky waters.

The muscles have hardened with age, the blood

barely makes it in and out of the doors.

As brittle as glass it had become, afraid

that it will shatter into pieces in someone's hands.

Never leave this place, it kept chanting these

words for years now, content with the cold.

But did it really want to stay here all its life

fearing and shunning everything outside its cavern?



Here you are, explorer of the distant worlds and

seeker of treasures that are worth more than gold.

Your strange maps have somehow revealed my

whereabouts that were kept secret all this while.

What made you take this path, I wonder, you

could've gone anywhere but you chose this route.

Thrice you knocked on my doors;

I was almost there, ready to unbolt and unlock.

Wait, said the heart, don't let that person in;

what if they hurt me, we don't want that now, do we?

But you stood there waiting for me to open up,

chiseling sculptures out of the ice to amuse yourself.

Little chinks were now forming in the walls;

at last, your perseverance has amazed me.

Maybe it would do no harm to peep out for a second,

I said to the heart, but was I really sure?



Here we are, standing on either side of the cracks,

fumbling to strike a conversation.

The heart raced around at full speed, no amount

of constant reassurance could calm it down.

It was then I heard you telling me stories about the places

you've gone to and the memories you made there.

Your voice thawed my heart, the blood rushed in it

and started making music inside me.

I sat down listening and the sun started to sink,

orange, red, pink, purple, the heart stared at the sky.

You taught it how to laugh, how to cry, how to

get hurt, how to heal, how to forgive and how to love.

The heart never felt so exposed yet safe, timid

yet composed, vulnerable yet at peace with itself.

Now when it opens the windows to breathe in some

fresh air, I ask it - since when did you get so brave?

Of parallel lines that would never converge.

You and I were just the same,
running around the world chasing our dreams,
weaving colourful dramas out of
our mundane monochrome lives.

You and I were just the same,
building bridges made of thoughts to reach out
to each other whenever words fell short
and spoke often with our eyes.

You and I were just the same,
treading on the same plane carrying each
others burden and revelling in each others
happiness though our paths were never alike.

You and I are still just the same,
or maybe that's what I like to think so
we only chose to move ahead in
different directions now.

You and I will always be just the same
we sure will change with time and age but deep
inside me a part of you lives and
in you I shall continue to exist.

You and I belong to the same old story,
only now writing different versions of it in our heads,
and living the tale
of parallel lines that would never converge.

There are several people who have always belonged with me,
which ones do really know who I am?

There are multiple universes hidden inside of me,
which ones could you explore?

There are a hundred different layers cloaked beneath my skin,
which ones are you aware of?

There are many masks that I use daily to conceal,
which ones did you see me wearing?

There are a lot of high walls surrounding my heart every moment,
which ones did I let you breakthrough?

There are numerous stories stashed up in my head,
which ones did I tell you about last night?

If the papers lying on my desk
had a voice, they would ask me
why don’t I write anymore.
They would ask for more stories
about us that I kept telling them
for years, we are their favourites.
I first started writing when you
came in with a smile and
filled my heart with your warmth.
One day you’ve left me grieving in
this cold, dark place and I thought
may be I could write for one last time.
Tears stained the papers instead of
ink, but they didn’t understand
this new language I wrote in.
Those papers are just lying there,
I never write again after
wiping the last tear off my face.
May be they do have a voice and
want to know what made me
stop writing, but I can’t hear them now.