She held the sky in her hand
to unveil the first morning
blue and trembling
like love before its name.

He tried to catch a glimpse of her,
to unveil a closeness near
soft and golden
like warmth before it learns to appear.

Orchards of fruits obscured the gaze
leaves hung like listening skin
So, desire plucked them
like want before it learns to begin.

Peaches began to shimmer and fall,
she held them in her arms
and he held her
like longing before it learns its harm.

They took the bite together
sweet and spilling.
Almost burning
like a kiss before the soul goes still.

This is how the first love story ran
And the world didn’t end, it began.

Beneath the piano's lid
lays a maestro murdered mid sonata.
while the ballroom spun in lace and lies.
The revelers fled, but their souls stayed.

The chandelier still shivers,
as if remembering the scream that shattered the final waltz.
The floorboards remember the rhythm of panic.
A trail of pearls leads to the piano,
like breadcrumbs for the dead

Mirrors fracture under the weight of secrets.
They spill secrets like cold blood.
The portraits have no eyes now.
Their gaze dissolved from knowing.
They saw the music beg for mercy.
They saw the conductor’s baton become a dagger.

The piano plays itself at midnight.
His breath trapped in the strings,
trying to finish the song that killed him.
The keys have no fingerprints.
as if guilt wore its manners.

And in the corner
the last guest remains.
A widow in bone-white gloves,
She waits for the song to end.

I didn’t fall for you.
I weathered into you.
I loved you like erosion:
slow, brutal, inevitable.

I didn’t chase you.
I tectoned toward you
I loved you like sediment loves gravity.

I didn’t touch you.
I lichened to your absence
I loved you like a fault line loves pressure.

But you loved me like weather loves stone:
briefly, and only to reshape me.
loved me like a glacier:
slow to move, quick to forget the valley.

Our love story will last till
mountains forget they were once oceans.

You never knock, just crash through ceilings in thunder heels.
You ghost me with fog, flirt with the moon,
and leave pollen on my doorstep like cryptic love notes.

I have seen you dressed in monsoon silk,
barefoot in sandstorms,
wearing mountain ranges like shoulder pads
and rivers like mascara that never runs.

You are chaos in couture,
a vine that strangles and a breeze that forgives.
You kiss with oxygen,
but you bite with bees.

I tried to tame you once,
built fences, trimmed hedges,
named you “landscape.”
You laughed in wildfire.


I love you in drought and flood,
in cracked soil and overgrown jungles.
I love you when you bloom without permission,
when you rot with purpose.

So here I am
kneeling in your dirt,
offering my plastic sins,
asking for nothing
but one more sunrise
and the mercy of shade.

Would I date me? Why wouldn't I?
I am imperfect, clueless, weird and spry
I love my flowers on the vine,
Not in bouquets or vases which shine.

Would I date me? Why wouldn't I?
I have a fireproof heart and no roving eye.
I am loyal to truth, not to comfort or trend,
And I would rather offend than politely pretend.

Would I date me? Why wouldn't I?
It’s difficult to meet such a guy
Who will quote Rumi mid-flirt, roast your aura,
Then vanish to write about civil euphoria.

They taught us to dissect frogs,
but not the feeling of being dissected.
We memorized the bones of empires,
but no one named the fracture in our own spines.

We wake up with hearts in our throats,
trap ourselves in flickering cages,
Pout like mannequins  in group shots.
We google "how to disappear"
between lectures on resilience.
We draft essays on survival ,
while planning exits.
We smile at teachers who praise
our punctuality while we
count pills under the desk.


The counselor called us in one by one,
handed us pamphlets
with smiling cartoon brains.
Just ticked boxes
and sent us back to class
with a sticker that said “brave.”
which curled by noon.

When the windows whispered
and the knives called us by name,
they called it depression.
It wasn't.
It was syllabus.
We were just doing the homework.

A mother walks through bullets for bread
A child through shellfire for a sip of grain
Young girls bleed in corners quietly
Toddlers die in mothers' arm from thirst.

This is the plot, world is writing on,
Poets, presidents, painters even parrots
all scribbling words on rubbles and ruins.

An aid truck hums like ice cream van
drawing children to their deaths.
Graves are homes, morgues have IV drips
beeping machines mourn louder than mothers.

This is the setting, leaders are banking on.
Protestors, professors, publishers even pilgrims
all parading pain for policies and propaganda.

Camera's click as children chase compassion
Aid drops flutter like dying doves
every countable rib is a bestseller,
Prime time feeds on man-made famine.

This is the ******, audience is locked on
Photographers, producers, preachers even podcasters
all packaging pain for premieres and praise.

This is the modern-day Macbeth where power demands
we slit our conscience to wear crowns.
Guilt is a graveyard and every prophecy is screaming
from scorched soil to sear our souls.