And then she breathed out words from the same mouth with which she worships his lips, "you can't easily forget a person who had a promise clenched in those hands which looked like they were made to hold yours, hands which were sculpted to love but not for balancing forevers, hands which had the lanes of 'almost' crossing them but still a promise eloped those lanes and ended up in my heart. A promise of hearing the silence of my love over the volume of goodbye."
Loving you is like leaving for a temple and ending at your doorstep, loving you is like preaching prayers and ending it in your name, loving you is like telling my favourite colour and ending up imagining your eyes, loving you is like answering what makes my life beautiful and ending up describing you, loving you is like searching Amrita Pritam's poems and ending up reminiscing you in every line, loving you is like standing in front of the mirror and ending up looking at myself through your eyes, loving you is like looking at the sky and ending up tracing your initials in the lilac skylines spilt all over the sky as if celebrating my love for you, loving you is like cutting out my heart on words and ending up becoming a broken prayer finding meaning among the gap of your lips, loving you is like imagining home and ending up thinking about the last time your arms were holding me in a fragile grip, fragile enough to let my love breath and gripped enough to not lose me when fate knocks on the door.
She's the chaos She's the academia She's philosopher's discovery Frangrance of red sangria.
Shes the outright burst of laugh Shes the mystery of bermuda Shes ocean containing rage and calm Her beauty signifies Gianni Versace's medusa.
Theres so much more I wanted to pen down but words just dont seem to provide the right justice to your persona. You're living example of dark academia beauty. And trust me on this, none of what I write about you is ever fictional. The only reason I can write about you is because you are actually so suitable to be someone's muse. You contain every quality what an artist's art should hold. I remember how special you made my birthday. That penguin, those memes, you stayed with me the whole day. WHO DOES THAT? You. Love you so much supriya. I miss the times we used to talk consistently. Happy birthday love ♡♡♡
To one of the most genuine people who wear their hearts on their sleeves @manasaa
Happy Birthday Manasaa. I don't think there is an extra a in the end?! Or is there one? The bg is a reverse acrostic
I love the person that you are. You're rare and precious and unique. I wish skies, hope and smiles in your way.
Siddharth has exams till 12th July so he won't be available. Happy birthday from his side as well
--------- This one's for you(hope you like it)—
With flaming wings of a whimsical unicorn, wearing a crown of benevolence, jasmines tied on hair loosely, an armlet of safflower; a halo of sunshine hovering above her head, she flies away into the land where unicorns exist and so does magic.
Where the sky is a chandelier adorned with hanging ribbons of hope and candlelit dinners are celebrated with blabbering teacups and dancing spoons.
Where fleeting auroras stop for a moment in their path to gape at her, a sunset with sunshine clenched in her little palms and nails painted with shades of lavender. She wears a marigold necklace gifted by winds and an anklet of a poem that clangs as she scampers to search for sunflower in a garden of roses.
She’s a firefly and her father is out there somewhere in the welkin sometimes proud tears in his eyes twinkles as stars watching his daughter grow into the brave and beautiful lady who has always been a synonym for optimism and hope and kindness.
As the dawn breaks in, she sails back into reality in an attempt to transform it into the magical land with her words.
poetry is the art of the poor the rich rarely have a flair for it the ones who are stricken with a dark life, who rummage their pockets but don't find a single friend, who are neck deep in lonliness even while smiling this art belongs to them it is their only inheritance it feeds their starving souls when the world denies to help and in december when the winter gets so ruthless and slits through their bare wrists poetry covers up people like a mother hiding a child in her shawl when everyone looks down on their existence, poetry hugs the untouchables
The rose petals in my journals have dried into shades of brown and your photographs in my drawers haven't tasted air for years now. They keep growing in dust and I in melancholy.
Your photographs are polaroids of memories I am too afraid to open too afraid to name love. Smiles have been fading and my wounds now ache in love and whisper your name every time they bleed. They have grown sour to all the memories that rot inside, It stinks like a reminder of not being enough.
The mirror on the wall is old and I sit staring at it in long breaths and cold hands.
Nose too big- Check Lips too chapped- Check Eyes not pretty enough- Check The heart is too broken - Check No self-love - Check
I keep whispering it like an LKG rhyme again and again for I carry too much hate for me and too much love for him. I remember things I shouldn't and love people I don't want to. Oh, but do they love me back? They don't, they never did.
When I die, do not cry. The pages I kept, Unnamed Will rise from ashes that beholds desires.
When I die, Will you look at me? Will you hold my hand My desires, That I hid in the untitled journal, Addressed to you?
The half burnt dreams Which I laid under the wooden bed Will you tug that inside the little girl's breast Who cries in bare eyes at night under the streetlight Who after extinguishing the fire of her husband's stomach's call Sleeps in a bed that protests dreams in the loudest language.
The colors I kept Between Jane Austen's novels in the bookshelf Scatter them away in the sky And watch the widow collecting them and draping them around her white skin Who at dusk, kisses the coffin of her martyr husband.
The bottle of tear I kept in the closet Address them to a poet's pen And watch him whisper a hope note with every drop of tear Inking in the whitest paper.
The courage I kept under the Attic Give them away to the kid Who drapes his dead mother's blanket at night While waiting for him father to come back home With the food He sold his meat for.
The peace I stored In that wooden box Give them away to the old age home Where the mother cries over the son's return Who rides in his world of money.
And the remnants of my agony My pain, my jealousy And the lies and selfishness Burn them in the pyre of my death Let them drape my whole skin in the fire I lit
Burn all the pieces, burn them to ashes In the fire of my pyre.