I have prayed and cheered, I have supported and feared, I have followed and walked, I have seen you start, I have seen you finish, I have seen you at the top, I have seen you at the bottom, More than anything, I have been there, Without you knowing about my existence, Yet, I have prayed and cheered...

If you think I'm moody, Let me tell you, I take inspiration from the sky, That changes shades from blues to oranges, From yellows to pinks.

I had built some boundary like walls And now it's time to jump from them. • Kuch deewarein banake rakhi thi, Ab unse koodne ka samay aa gaya hai.

Maybe you'll keep looking for my words, In places on the internet, That once held my presence, Maybe you won't find them there again, Maybe some of them were written for you once, Maybe you already knew.

In your twenties, There will be a guy, Who'll text you one night, Saying how a certain song reminds him of you. A song that was always your favourite to begin with. It's important for you, To not take it personally. Because, that moment onwards, Whenever you'll listen to that song, It'll remind you of him, And when he leaves, Which he will, You'll not be able to listen to your favourite song, For 20+ months. Maybe he'll forget about all the sweet words he said, But, your hear

I see you first, After days that turned into months, Did you long for me too? You turn slow, To look at me a little more, Did I want to look at you too? Yes, I did, But, no, I didn't, Why do I avoid your eyes, Why don't I smile? Why am I such a mess? Why do you find me all the time?

It's 10:56 PM, I don't have a thought to stretch out into a poem, To add laces to a boring day dream, Make it pretty and poised, I think the words have already left the chat, I think these leftovers, Are not worth anything.

Maybe I'll find you, As randomly as I found, The crescent moon, In the twilight sky this evening. Maybe I'll have, An epic story to share with everyone.

I find poems written by other poets, Sounding like the ones, I used to write once, And now I wonder, If that poet even exists, Because she would never write something like this, She would encrypt her feelings, In verses, She would send them to her muses, She would share it with the world, And this one, here, Has nothing to do with her, Or her muses. Her muses left, And then her words too. Apt last words for my book or this blog, haha.

I feel like the last tulip blooming while the whole field is harvested to be put in bouquets for their loved ones. I feel like the last balloon at the balloon seller, the one never got picked. The one about to deflate. I feel like the last piece of bread, untouched, unwanted, ignored.

Only the revival of my inner lover girl, Will stop the demise of this blog, Because I see the laboured breath, Of my imagination, Trying to thrust life into this dead space, And I don't think it wants to survive, A life that's so null and void of any love.

Sometimes, Despite showing up, Again and again, Isn't enough, But that doesn't mean, You're not trying, It only means, You've to let it happen, At its own pace, And you, Meanwhile, Can just show up, To welcome it, Whenever it arrives.