किताबें मेरा संसार थीं,
मेरा चाव, मेरा जीवन।
दिल मेरा उनके हर सफे पर धड़कता था।
फिर तू आया.

(पूर्ण कविता अनुशीर्षक में )
-मोनिका अरोड़ा

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शून्यता को पा कर,
सब कुछ पा लेता है इंसान,
जहाँ कुछ नहीं होता,
वहीं से जन्म लेता है ज्ञान।

न शोर, न आवाज़ें,
बस मौन का विस्तार,
ना कोई प्रश्न बाक़ी,
ना उत्तर की दरकार।

शून्य में छुपा है सब कुछ,
आदि, मध्य और अंत,
जैसे मौन में गूंजता है,
सृष्टि का पहला मंत्र।

जो शून्यता से न डरे,
वही जीवन को समझे,
जो खो दे स्वयं को इसमें,
वही स्वयं को सहेजे।

शून्य नहीं है शून्यता
ये पूर्णता का द्वार है,
देखो तो बीच में खाली,
समझो तो पूरा ब्रह्मांड है
-मोनिका अरोड़ा

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Lavender skies,
Only smiles,
No cries..
I bloom beneath
my own sunrise.

Soft and free,
Like morning dew,
I’ve found my peace
In being true..

I wear the day
Like softened hue
Half in the light,
Half out of view..
-monikaa.

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ਇਸ ਕਰਕੇ ਮੈਂ ਕੋਈ ਸਵਾਲ ਨਹੀਂ ਕਰਦੀ,
ਮੈਨੂੰ ਡਰ ਹੈ ਕਿ ਤੇਰਾ ਜਵਾਬ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਮਾਰ ਦੇਵੇਗਾ।

Is karke main kōi savāl nahin kardī,
mainū ḍar hai ki tērā javāb mainū mār dēvēgā.

-

......

-

Not all warmth reaches the soul.
Some losses leave winter behind,
even in the middle of June.

The sun blazes,
streets shimmer under heat,
and the air hangs heavy,
but inside..
a different season lives.

And so we carry both...
the heat of the world,
and the chill of remembering.

The body burns with heat waves,
sweat trickles like rivers down the skin,
but the heart...
the heart is frozen,
trapped in the frost of what once was.
-monikaa.

-

.......

-

Your eyes are the ink in my poems,
Each glance you give feels like shooting stars,
Stars that fall onto my pages,
and light it up like a night
sharing secrets with the moon.

Your beard... where untold stories begin,
A rough start to every poem I’ve yet to write.
Your chest... where our heartbeat feels like a melody.
Each breath a verse, each sigh a wish.

And when you say my name in that deep, soft voice,
It becomes a song I hear again and again.
You are the story my soul keeps telling—
My muse, my music, my mystery.
-monikaa.

-

While all of our lives
we keep praising the woman's body...
soft curves, honeyed sighs,
have you ever stopped
to worship him?

The slow rise of breath
beneath his chest,
a trail of fire leading down
where heat turns sacred,
and need becomes art...
jaw carved like whispered sin,
veins like rivers down forearms,
and fingers...
Oh!! those fingers
made for both war and worship.

His scent..
earthy musk and wild promise,
pulls you in like a storm
that knows how to be gentle
before it dissipate.

And when he speaks..
not with words, but with
lips pressed against your pulse,
you feel worshiped,
not as a goddess,
but as a flame only he dares touch
without burning.

In that moment,
the world softens...
time folds beneath the sheets,
and there’s only skin,
and breath,
and the poetry of him,
written not in ink,
but in sweat and want.
-monikaaa

-

I remember the taste of his sweat
when he was on top of me,
and a drop fell on my lips.
I took my tongue to his neck..
I wanted more of him,
more of that heat.

There was salt,
but it didn’t sting.
It felt like something inside me
was being healed.

They say the cure for everything is salt..
the sea,
the tears,
and the sweat.

And sometimes,
the salt from love
feels softer.
After all,
isn’t it better
to be healed by love’s salt
than drowned in the salt of tears?
-monikaaa

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