A galaxy tshirt

I still put two sugar cubes in my coffee
and a crazy amount of jelly in my
PB sandwiches
The fairy lights we bought together
are still up
and my dog is still not over
the fact that you left
Neither am I
But thanks for asking.

I still work at the same crappy underpaid firm
and sometimes visit bookstores
to reshelve wrongly placed books in their respective sections
so that they feel more close
to home.
I used the matching
pair of socks you got for us
to make sock bunnies for
my 6 year old niece
The drawer that used to
be filled with Skittles and
candies is now stocked
with anxiety pills
and post
heartbreak traumas.
But thanks for asking.

Those tacky romantic comedies
make me nostalgic
so I switch the channel to some random cooking show
and carefully note the recipes
for that kind elderly neighbor
who used to bring us
sweets every now and then.
I still put illogical wishes
in helium balloons only to
let ’em float away in the
sky as crimson blue as
your favourite galaxy tshirt.
The same galaxy t shirt
you used to make our dog wear
and carry him around the house
like he’s some innocent puppy
on a space mission.
Nothing is same without you.
But thanks for asking.


Daisies and a headlight

As a little girl
you used to pick
the doll other kids
because you didn’t
want anyone to feel
I knew you were something.

You plucked daisies and made
me make their bracelets
only so you could gift
it to the new girl in school.
That new girl
ended up being
your maid of honor.

You hated getting
your hair oiled
but it was the
only time grandma
narrated her childhood
stories and how
could you miss that.

I knew you got
that bruise on your
leg because you tried
to fix the headlight of
grandpa’s scooter
but failed
miserably at it.
Instead you told
me you fall down
while chasing
a hotdog seller.
Foolish kid, you don’t even
like hotdogs.

You are.

You’re the kind of girl
who wears sunflower on her head
and breathes literature.
You’re the girl who smiles at
abandoned stray dogs
and leaves your soul
to every street artist you
hear playing on your
way to work.
You hide the most beautiful
parts of your body
using the scarf your
grandmother knit for you.
Since woman your age
can’t walk around in clothes that
fit your skin like they
own it.
You’re that dusty mildly torn
book in the corner of
the library. Hidden from
all things shiny and pretty.
You are art in it’s most intimate form.
Your therapist speaks the truth.
You are damaging.
Damagingly beautiful.

Night sky

The night sky is amazingly beautiful. With all those stars smiling at us every night. Sometimes I feel like everytime I don’t fuck up, a star appears in the sky to congratulate me and looking at all those stars in the sky reminds me of the times I didn’t fuck up and actually achieved what I wanted. It’s stupid. But it makes me feel better.
It’s beautiful. Isn’t it? The stars. The sunsets. The waterfalls. The autumn leaves.
I don’t know why I never found those things that beautiful. Beauty is much more powerful and remarkable than that.
Beauty is in that old man selling candy floss on a crazy hot tiresome school afternoon just to buy her grand daughter a pair of shoes to go to school in. The girl who puts hundreds of clinical creams in order to get rid of her acne is beautiful ( she just doesn’t know it ). Beauty is in the eyes of that stray dog while he finally eats his first meal in 2 days from a stale bread you threw in the bin a minute ago. A person dining alone in a restaurant is beautiful. Not because he is courageous to do so but because he finds himself interesting enough to spend time with. Your little sister smiling with her braces is beautiful. Your wrinkly old grandma keenly knitting a sweater for you on a rocking chair is beautiful. The fat girl running cutely on a treadmill only to lose a little weight to fit in her wedding dress is definitely the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Their night sky might not have a lot of stars because they might have fucked up real bad at times but it sure will be the most extraordinary night sky I’ll ever see.


you leave a piece of yourself in every person you love. The family you don’t talk to anymore because you are too busy making your marriage work. Your childhood crush who you intentionally used to let win in snake and ladders. That best friend you lost touch with after school. All your ex boyfriends who loved you in pieces. lol.
Its funny to think that there are people roaming around in streets with pieces of you in them. And you can’t go upto them and just say ‘Hey! I’d like my piece back’ because there’s a chance you have a piece of them too and maybe you are just not ready to let go of it.


Love is crazy scary. Love is awkward and weird and bookishly romantic. Love is that little girl with a perpectually long braid who borrowed your favourite Shaka laka boom boom pencil but never returned it and you didn’t confront her because she’s cute. Love is in that sandwich ( with a smiley face made by tomato ketchup on it ) your mother used to make for you before leaving for office. Love is when your best friend never forgets that you like your brownie sundae without nuts and your men without issues. Love is simply resting in that folder in your hidden gallery which contains 2000 photos of her.Love is when you buy your grandfather a wallet every year on his birthday because you know he is not going to change his old rugged wallet himself. Love is in that dog collar belt and pet bowl you hid in a drawer beside your bed because you just can’t let go of Tucker’s belongings. Love is in those little things people like to call memories.

In a city

In a fictional city
where everyone
knows your name.
In a city where people
are nothing but
stick figures with a smiley
face wearing paper
In a city where
your food talks
to you so
that no one feels
lonely while
dining alone.
In a city where
slow music
is always
playing in the
while you are
just living your life.
In a city where
rainbows are
and so
is your
first high school
relationship ๐Ÿ™‚