When the world around her sways between turmoil and tantrums, she picks up her pen and bruises the pages. Poetry has been her only prayer for almost a decade now.
Poem
The year will change its number like a witness changing clothes. Nothing about the crime will be different. The calendar flips, a mere rehearsal of hope before returning to the mundane, just like newly bought planners, just like your promise to never text them back, to never accept an apology
English
The wet white street lamps coiled with blue fireflies rushed backward To breathe in the lingering essence of love we left behind us. We live in the city of joy But you've turned it into my dome of love. On quiet afternoons, we walked hand in hand around
The first night I stopped chasing time, hollowness groped my throat with its bare hands. Yet, I just kept suffocating on the absence of everything. Silence sat on my chest like the hope of the newly abandoned kitten - Still thinking it'll be called back home. See, I&