Maybe in some other universe I'm loved and not just damaged. But here I'm damaged, yet feel love sometimes. And if that isn't enough, I wouldn't have been here. But I'm here, and I don't think about the other universe but my bestfriend holding my hand while resting her head on her boyfriend's shoulder. And there is love around me, even if it's not for me. There is love and
the warmth of the hand makes me feel enough.

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तुम कहते हो की दिल को मना लो
लेकिन अगर दिल मान गया तो हम लिखेंगे कैसे?

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August, it's you again.

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बारिश की इस तेज गड़गड़ाहट में तुम दबे पांव आ जाना
मैं किसी से नहीं कहूंगी तुम भागे हुए पंछी हो जो आशियां ढूंढ रहे हो ।

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It's May and not december.

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तुम्हारे शहर में बारिश हुई है और मेरे शहर में बादल उमड़ आए है,
ये कोनसा तरीका है भला बात-चीत करने का?

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It's night but not night night for me and I'm sitting on a chair with fairly dim lights and a candle by my side. My thoughts have stopped being my thoughts. They are wandering on their own and I'm unable to hold onto them. I've become that ballon falling from the height, almost floating, almost nowhere. And I'm speaking to a lot of people these days yet I feel heavy. The weight of the words pushes me down each time I open my mouth. I've been labelled as weird here. They don't like silence as much as you did. I'm speaking out yet I feel hollow and I know there's no connection between speaking and feeling hollow but I'm tired and the words are running away this time. I have lost the essence of writing like I've lost-
I wish I could hear you once so I could smoke you out.

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I feel autumn, again.

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तुम कविता लिखने बोलते हो
हमारी छोटी सी
चुराई हुई मुलाकात पे,
मैं तुम्हें देखती हूं
तो मौन पड़ जाती हूं,
मेरी खामोशी को ही
अब तुम कविता समझ लो।

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