They argue hard, then go all mute,
their chat now staler than last week's fruit.
She's butter, soft, then hard as ice,
he's toast, burnt once, then extra nice.

They say, 'we're done,' then sneak a peek,
like fridge light moments, brief, yet sleek.
She opens up, he closes the door,
then midnight hunger says 'talk once more.'

No closure here, just snack and spite,
They're the fridge light at midnight.

-

you're my paperback in a world full of PDFs

-

new cover
new beginning
same old obsession

-

its skin tore softly, like the silence between us.
Each slice, a secret I’d kept hidden.
The first crush, the missed calls,
the dreams I packed like lunch in steel tiffin boxes, only to return untouched.

The pulp, tender and bursting,
reminded me of the joy I saved for you,
Sweet, sharp, never shared.
Juice dripped down my fingers,
like the words I never spoke
but carried in my throat like prayer.

You never asked for it.
But I peeled anyway.

-

He sketches a
portrait, not hers.
She's left out.

-

Waves come crashing.
Touch the shore.
Hands stay empty.

-

It ripened slowly,
bathed in borrowed warmth,
clinging to the branch
like trust to a trembling promise.
The wind flirted,
the sun coaxed,
and the tree-
it stood still,
offering no reassurance,
no shelter from the storm brewing.
No one heard the cries
of a fruit that ached to hold on,
no hand reached out in time, and
a mango fell while no one watched.

-

If words are a writer's voice,
can we call someone facing writer's block

DUMB!

-

To be a flower pressed between the pages
a token of love or
a reminder of love drifted away

a frantic search for fragrance or
a realization that what has vanished doesn't reappear

a symbol of what might have been or
a thankfulness that what happened
happened for the best

-

Wish I were your saree.

Draping your flaws.

Pleating your happiness.

Revealing the best within you.

-