Not always on how many windows we've, also the walls.

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It occured to me that I haven't thanked the person who believed me with eyes closed and so not looking back and forth gifted me the premium. Thank you Samhita ba. I'm not as good as many people out here yet you did this. You chose me. This memory will always be at the front seat. When I will write I will see it, when I will not I will feel it. This is more than being kind or sweet, you put your faith at stake and so it's the most precious. I will always carry it, I promise.

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Lies on plains not on brink but in a blink

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Ode On My Seventeenth

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Bookmark between two pages

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Hills talk of patience.
Its top acts like a window to its long wait.
Through it rolls down a brook,
Mumbling its lost tale.

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I wonder when I write,
Why do I love train more than aircraft in a love poem?
My ego should've loved air more looking at miniatures
Of everything but
Is it because the place where I wait at is station for one, runway for the other?

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Shadow hasn't made light hollow but is an assurance of its invisible presence, as windchime to wind.

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love for others



too much of it leaves you midway, too less of it gives you guilt.

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Eyes: Do you see what I see?
Me: You're the only thing that make me see. Isn't it?
Eyes: You haven't been outspoken. Say what you feel about it.
Me: Yes I do, now stop being annoying.
Eyes: He has his kingsized suitcase in the car trunk, his laptop at the front seat and all of his other things at its back. Am I going well?
Me: Yes, you're! Now please leave.
Eyes: He gave you a bunch of notes of which you had lost count yesternight. I was horrid to see so many notes. Your mind must be pleased, is your heart too?
Me: I don't know. I don't want to know.
Eyes: His ticket says he is leaving for States. Nice place. Only a week visit, not a big trouble for you.
Me: Yeah, not a big trouble.
Eyes: But you're worried. Everything's crystal clear, what's there to doubt?
Me: Trust is your eyes and in this way, I'm blind.

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