I have found traces of intimacy in the mundane.
It is quiet, woven in daily rhythms
Beyond dialogue and loud performances
It is still -neatly folded in the background.

It’s in halfway smiles, that never ask to be noticed
In the rhythm of your walk—thunder some days,
shuffle on others—but always yours.
Its in the kind of silence that isn’t empty but shared.

The sacred hides in small rituals,
It lives in my sister’s mornings,
She hums half-songs as she gets ready for work -
shuffling through the rooms-doors left half open-clanking cups as she makes coffee- drifting into the shower, where minutes fall like water-the eternal race against the clock.
She scatters joy like prayer without knowing it, hymns of sunlight drift into corners of our home.
And yes, she’s late- again,
but her lateness feels like a warm gift.

This is how love arrives-
quietly, in the familiar,
asking only to be noticed.

You devour men and

you feast on my lips, but you --


do not give yourself.

I'm giving myself

intimately to you, that's --


casual to you?

We hug each other.

It's a vain consolation --


We can't get closer.

almost everyone had left
by the time the clock
struck midnight.

you kissed me
at the top of the stairs,
then, after getting more wine,
announced to the room,
i’m staying here,
by the way.

my housemate
offered you blankets —
bless him,
so unaware.

you said
you’d take over my bed,
and i could sleep
wherever i wanted.

that was the night
i realised
i was madly in love.
i knew it may hurt,
but i couldn’t refuse
signing up.

we went through
three bottles of wine,
spent the evening
in the embrace of
soft conversations
on table thirteen.
it was four o’clock.
sun nowhere near.

you moved closer,
leaned in,
and i froze.
i couldn’t breathe.

i had no idea
what you were doing.

i was locked in your eyes
until you broke the moment,
laughing —
you’re so easy to ******.
i felt something in me split.

you’re not stupid.
i know you knew
that my heart
this year has been
only beating for you.

until you lifted me up
as our lips brushed,
for the first time in months —
and the night blurred
in the back of a car,
all glass and gold streetlight.

the heat of your laptop
on my thigh,
netflix playing rick and morty —
at first, we watched,
then it faded into background.

i fell asleep
in your clothes,
your scent
settled into my skin
as you held me close.

Last night, we made love.
I was wearing my baby-pink bra,
my white lace *******.

I was surprised you didn’t take it all off at once.
I think you liked how innocent I seemed to you
after so long.

You kissed me deeply,
touched my whole body.
I liked that.

You were concerned about my pleasure—
you wanted me to come.
I didn’t.

But the whole experience
was still worth it.

We’re good now,
like we used to be.

This was supposed to be my day—
a day to be happy.

I ended up alone.
Again.
Disgracefully.
Inevitably.

Every choice I’ve made
has brought me here.

I try to fool myself,
saying it’s not my fault—
blame my parents,
they raised me this way.

But I’m no longer a child.
Or at least,
I should have grown,
matured,
evolved.

At the end of my day,
the pleasure should have been mine.
But instead, I undressed,
put you in my mouth,
and gave you pleasure.

Happy birthday to me.