// You are an ad-lib soliloquy on some days and a miraculous metaphor on others. //

(Full piece in caption)

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So for every rose that she cried last summer,
he left her a wilted lily from heaven.

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one day the world will know
that the trails of uneven ventures
that my tears left on my cheek,
were in fact, battle scars
i picked up on the way back home
from the skies.

i was not born to cry over pain.
so it rains when i fight.

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||Gunshot||

You crawled in
like a fake apology
tethered to a transient
sense of self-respect

whirlpooling what we were
into what we could've been
to ensure that we never are.

You hurt like a gunshot.
Bet I can hold a pen instead
of a bullet now,
and still fire into your heart
and make it step back.

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None of my followers might remember me. I returned to YourQuote hoping to find the ashes from which a phoenix might one day rise again. I'm 18 now. The last time I wrote on this app, I was 16. Life has changed so much since then. People came, people left. I fell in love, I fell out of love. Or maybe it was something I mistook for love, who knows? From trying to gain likes and followers to trying to gain some real-life experience, from finding time to write poetry everyday to barely finding time to breathe again, from making online friends to talking to strangers in the real world, and from writing for followers to writing for finding a way to vent out, I have come a long way. I miss YourQuote. I came back home for once. I miss all of you who made my four years (2018 to 2022) in the app an amazing time. Are any of you still here? Can we catch up? Reply in the commen.ts section then? Let's talk. I still don't know if I'm ever going to write here on YQ again, but I sure will never delete the app. It's the place that built me as a writer. Hello YourQuote Baba. How are you doing?

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We are writers.
My love, we stare into nothingness
and weep metaphors to fill the voids.
We pen our lives like novels
born out of a volcanic yet
microscopic mental breakdown.

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IHYAHWUIH
(for and after Kumarpal Vardhan)

When you died, we mourned despite you
asking us not to. Not because we wanted
to but because we had no other way to
make this foolish heart come to terms with
the fact that you left earth to go back
to where you came from:

a faraway galaxy, like a drop of ink in a cosmic
canvas. A ray of hope on the moon that
helps it shine. And we still hold on to hope

that maybe, somehow, someday, you'll know
that you were so loved and dear to us.

Go on, then. Read out your poetry
aloud to the skies, and let them fall as
raindrops on our window sills.

Be the bird you wanted to be. Fly.— % &

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something you'd always find in poetry.

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Like a phoenix from the ashes,
I'll rise from a million pieces
of my broken self.

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I've been listening to
on repeat on my iPod
like God is listening
to his Earth playlist.

And it restores both of
our faiths in true love.

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