G

like a gentle breeze brushing my hair and linger like a tender touch

A word about you is poetry,

each letter grows wings the moment it carries you,your name and anything and everything about you

And I remain as a paper heart,

The voice of your eyes drinks me slowly.Every glance from you is a word,a conversation in silence I never want to forget,it lingers on my skin like a sweet kiss without touch.I live like a poem left in your breath,long for the next line you will write through your eyes

Of his views and my thoughts

Every line it carves is not a grave of grief for what was,but a fresh scar on what remains.The poem is not just a gentle act of creation,but a brutally beautiful birth.For a poem to be born,a page has to be died.

My reflection sits in the middle of this bridge where one edge is what I was never allowed to become while the other is what I am trying to become.

So why won't it be heavy for you to carry?

I gave you my heart,you said my heart is too heavy to carry around everywhere you go So you left it to let it walk alone in the middle of nowhere You are right it's too heavy, Because I have some half written poems hanging on the layers of my veins Searching verses of your love in between the pages of my life But all I have is pieces of my scattered soul on the margins Glued with your unanswered replies And letters with dried roses and leftovers Some poems carry my tear stains While others are sunshine flavored happiness from your fake phrases I safekeep all the essence of your presence in the vintage box called my heart So why won't it be heavy for you to carry?

That's why I write love,to sadness

Oh,it’s a strange sort of arithmetic,darling !

The more of you I carry, the less of me there seems to be, and somehow it’s the happiest subtraction I’ve ever known and a sweet loss I would always be ready and happy to lose,for it is the only loss that feels like gaining the world

G,Fragments from my book I am writing for a man whom I haven't even met yet

Whenever I try to speak, my words shiver beneath a scarf of fear. I always have words stuck on my tongue. To reach out, every letter has to hopscotch on the ribcage of my lungs. At once, my heart starts racing. I have to remind myself to breathe, which results in swallowing the sentences. So I write.

Why do I Write ?

Because I love to serve my thoughts on a platter of paper, with an aroma of emotions. My secret ingredient is feeling, and I sprinkle my soul-filled words gently like confetti. So I write.

Why do I write ?

For paper is the only place where I find solace. When I bleed the moments onto the sheet, it is the only time my throbbing heart never skips a beat. So I write.

Why do I Write ?

Most nights, I wake up to the darkness invading my mind chasing shadows till the end to meet memories enthroned inside my soul. So whenever I write, it makes us unite. We cage those penned moments in an envelope, with dried roses kept and sealed with love carrying pieces of my heart embedded within.So I write.

Why do I write ?

When my unspoken words of pain cry for help, I sit with my voices and bandage them pen as healer. I slowly, carefully touch them, place them on the paper, and wrap them as a poem. So I write.

Why do I Write ?

On the stage of life, I have stories to narrate but in front of a neglecting audience. So I write.

Why do I Write ?

Until you arrive, I will keep my museum-heart like a love letter inked in devotion, sealed with longing, tucked away from the world, but always yours. I’ll adorn the walls with rose-laced blushes, and hang my prayers like fragile portraits, When you walk in, even the silence will bloom at the sound of your breath. You won’t be a visitor here, my love you will be the soul for whom this entire museum was built. Each room preserved in tenderness, each hallway echoes your name in joy, and every layer of this love kept safe and sacred not for anyone else,but for you alone

~ I am a museum of love preserved for him