are meant to be bright.
Some cradle the shadows.
Lit only by the flicker
of a solitary lamp
that dares to
remember secrets
sealed in silence.

-

On a rain-kissed evening, the sisters sat on the balcony as the wind howled outside. Both were lost in their own thoughts and the companionable silence stretched between them.
At last, the younger one whispered, ‘Do you think Ma knew we read her letters?”
The elder one stared ahead for a few moments before answering in a measured tone, “She wrote them for us to find. Love leaves trails for those left behind.”
And as the storm raged outside, they held onto words that once held their mother’s warmth.

-

– not from a sky that still listens and wonders. Even when cloaked in clouds or drowned by the moon’s glow, they twinkle quietly, waiting for the dreamers, the wanderers, the hearts that still search. Even in stillness, their light reminds us that we are never truly alone in the dark.

-

I bloom quietly, like these lavenders. Carrying peace in my presence and resilience in my roots, grace in my silence and courage in every soft breath I take. That gentle strength - that’s what I truly cherish.

-

She stood still underneath her red umbrella as the first monsoon drops kissed the earth. Around her, vibrant blossoms danced in the breeze, murmuring tales of a lost love, washed away in a monsoon long gone. Yet she smiled as she let the rain rinse her silence, reminding herself that healing too, arrives quietly.

-

like a forgotten vow
inside a tattered letter;
once full of promise,
now drowning
in dust and silence.

-

Every Sunday, she brought her here; the same bench, the same tree, the same silence. At first the girl sat stiffly, clutching memories of her real mother like a shield. The woman never pried, only packed a thermos of cocoa and sandwiches to nibble on. The tree bore witness to seasons passing, and a bond growing; quietly, like roots beneath the soil. Years later, after the woman was gone, the girl returned. Grief trickled down her cheeks as she placed a note on the bench. “Thank you for raising me with love that never asked to be earned.’’

-

a wrong turn
down that narrow alley,
where laughter echoed
and time stood still.
She stood
beneath the lantern,
hand outstretched.
I took it -
cold, weightless, familiar.
"Ready to come home?"
she asked.
I looked back.
My body still lay
at the bottom
of the stairs.

-

the world opens up in ways
I never imagined;
each discovery
a fresh lens
to see life through.
My imagination
stretches its wings
turning the ordinary
into a canvas
of endless possibilities.

-

a silent farewell
pressed against cold glass,
where fingers linger longer
than hearts ever could.
And the only answer
to the ache
in your touch
is the rain.

-