to me,
words mattered
more than acts.
you could pull me close
with a single sentence.
the right phrase,
muttered ever so soft,
could mend
what a kiss could not.

my mind doesn’t care
for big gestures.
they don’t keep me
up at night.
the way you said,
i’ve never had
a real conversation
with her
the way we have,
however, might.

Across her sweatshirt, ninety-nine names
stitched like constellations —a lover finds
a hundred reasons to say why he loves you.

A slogan turned into scripture, she wears
it close to her chest; words sweating with her
on the mattress, to wait patiently, following
all the directions from the map of her heart.

I’ll mark the landscape, paint portraits of her
in my mind’s eye —learning the grammar
of her body, and the rules of her orientation.

Inside her, every detail is an interior design,
yet all of it points outward towards me.
She proves me down to earth, grounded
by the gravity of her presence.

Her breath is thick; honest words grazing
the neck like prayer; and in silence, our eyes
speak the sentences our lips can’t form.

Love repeats itself, a devotion like unanswered
prayers, whispered night after night; to find
a surrender that completes both sides of us.

I found my Hundredth Reason.

the unexpected storm
on another day
could have ruined
that intimate moment
of memories and ice cream
sat on the rocks
of the sea wall
surrounded by calm waters
even as the rain fell
and thunder rumbled
they headed for shelter
on their own terms
only when they wished
this time it had
done nothing more
than bring them
playfully
defiantly
together

Wishing the joy one

more time, even if it’s no --


longer possible.

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.