Put me into
Your words
And let's write
A love story
Filling the
Rest of the
Blank pages
Of our lives.

"Are we a thing?
Or am I just delusional for thinking we would make a good one?"

"Darling,
Every word that comes out of your mouth is a symphony to me."

"My innermost feelings are scattered all over the internet for others to read but if you were ever to come across them and solve the puzzle, I don’t know what I’d do."

Listen the unspoken words
Your heart whisper
The tender message it keeps
Before it's too late,

Don't wait for the perfect time
For it has never arrived
Today is all we own
Speak up! Before it's too late,

Show them you love
Show them you care
Coz there's nothing worse
Than being late!

                         -Mahima Goel

"We have gotten to know each other so well that we can basically read each others minds.
We know when the other person is messing with us and we know that there is something between us… but we just won’t admit it."

In the monsoon,
I walked colonised streets
trying to befriend a city,
forged fields and bright street lights,
they often vanished inside my eyes
to see happy children on beaches;
glass ceilings shattering to find a sky,
that broke down abruptly
to weep on my shoulders.
I swam in the rain
only to meet those children at the beach.
They roofed me under white curtains,
for the Witch might try to grab me,
plait my hair
and take me back
to her hall of circus.

Every flower,
every breeze,
every wounded bird in a city
are part of a folklore
where minstrels live,
they all sing me
back to beaches.

Sometimes I imagine sitting under our dining table wanting to chop my hair off, days and nights oppressed, yet not to run the rat race. Partly because I was too resistant to be happy, but with the first monsoon showers, I almost collapsed inside my oversized grey T-shirt that began to turn white, infinite gaps inside mind channels, I sat and watched strange men winning Wimbledon. I stopped writing one thousand words a day, themes and perspectives slipped into a closed brown diary, and I always worried what if someone finds it and reads it aloud in the public sphere in Prague, right in front of David Cherry’s rotating Kafka, how miserable he died thinking he was worthless, how miserable it would be to listen to voices that came beneath my dining table. I talk to a shy Kafka, every day, under our dining table, today he shaved my head.