The morning looked barren without the sun,
I sat by the river, undone, without the sun.

The sky above the ghat began to darken,
Boats went home, one by one, without the sun.

Birds spread their wings and flew far away,
Trees went wild as the storm begun, without the sun.

My hair was disheveled, my feet were cold,
But peace found me quiet and numb, without the sun.

I didn’t fight the dark, or flee,
I gave in slow, I did not shun, without the sun.

Oh piyu, they feared the breaking storm—
But I, I danced to the storm's hum, without the sun.

-

The winds were sighing at the end of March,
The blue sky looked tiring at the end of March.

A veil of dust covered the green trees,
Grey coloured everything at the end of March.

The Earth longed for the sky to roar and cry,
But the clouds kept drifting at the end of March.

Oh Piyu, is the sky going to cry again?
Or is April still lost, still hiding at the end of March?

-

In the everyday flow of life, it is as if I'm sipping on a room-temperature coke where the fizz has disappeared ages ago. The lukewarm vibes of routine mix with the tiredness of the daily life, creating a blend of just average. My days are like a dull and unexciting coke, missing the spark of thrill or the coolness of something new. It's a life full of ordinary and boredom, but it keeps going..

-

Do you ever feel so content
and in love that you hope
that nothing ever changes,
at least for a while...
because it feels like
what you have at that moment
is the most precious thing
and you just want to protect it,
as it feels so perfect and yet so delicate?

-

'But we're now. We grew apart. We know each other, but we barely know each other.'

'But that's not how I want things to be. I want to know you again.'

'Maybe getting to know each other now will only push us farther away.'

'But isn't it still worth a try?'

-

Just because something is the last straw, that doesn't mean that's the only straw.

-

Those pretentious words—like petrichor, soul, melancholy, serendipity—are a bit like fine china, aren't they? Some writers have a whole collection and use them everywhere, even in casual conversations, simply because they can, like Mr. Tharoor. Then there are the snobs, the ones who keep a select few on display, pulling them out for a little show-off moment. Others stash them away for special occasions, too precious to blend with their everyday language—always feeling out of place, forced, when they do try to use them. And some writers don’t bother with them at all, knowing that neither good food needs fine china, nor good writing needs pretentious words.

Still, no one can deny the beauty in both, whether it’s their intricate design or meaning.

-

Loving someone is hard, especially when you are struggling to love yourself. When counting petals is just a countdown for anxiety to cripple you, when thinking about uncertainty of future feels like wild crowd running around all over the brain as neurons are about to explode, when the cons outweigh the pros and you still cannot decide, when the mind knows what's right for you and the heart doesn't agree, when you know you should walk away but you cannot leave.

-

That night she danced
Madly, in the music of the storm.
Drums of thunder,
Songs of rain,
Hypnotized. Twirling.

From the window I watched.
A silhouette in trance,
Like an opiate,
It soothed my senses.
Calm ecstasy,
And a sudden end.
A ray of light.
I dreamt.

-

She never knew
that she got an inner artist,
hidden somewhere
in the corner of her heart,
until YourQuote happened to her.

Now she paints with words.

-