Her outline dissolves
where ink forgets form,
yet form still persists.
the hand that once
traced flame—
still warmth stays
in ash’s perfume.

He writes her
until vowels wear thin,
then turns page—
same ache,
different shadow dressed new—
the light shifts, not grief.

How oft can
silence be revised so?
His breath molds
replicas—
each with her pulse removed—
truth stripped of its hue.

-

I’ll live tonight, an eternity—
and die before dawn remembers my name.
The moon, pale archivist, unseals
souvenirs of fleeting vows—
undead in every echo I left behind.

We were myth, weren’t we?—
like figures stitched from opposite prophecies,
fate’s errant embroidery unraveling
in a silence too precise to mourn.

Your shadow—
still carries traces of my pulse,
while I remain,
a ghost rehearsing how to breathe
without being born again.

And when the wind forgets me,
I’ll call it mercy.

-

Undead Souvenir

Our love—
a bruise
in eternity’s mirror.
I lived,
died,
and kept the ache
as souvenir.

-

Happy Dhanteras to all of you
🙏🙏

-

~Her Chair by the Window~













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Light stirs like breath recalled—
not born, merely remembered.
Between rise and fall,
a secret burns:
dawn is only the night
learning to forgive itself.

So let the rise be birth,
and the fall—continuance.
Let what dies in us
keep dreaming.
Even the sun,
in its last ember, prays.

-

bears ancient weight—
heart
an urn
of unfinished gods,
their murmurs
unhoused.

-

So much kept,
so little endures.
Grief reuses
its shapes—see,
how neatly it folds
absence
into décor.

-

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