The glow of neon catches your skin—
pink and purple painting shadows on the curve of your cheek.
We are haloed in “good vibes only,”
but the way you look at me is the only gospel I believe.

You wrestle with chopsticks,
a clumsy dance of wood and slick noodles.
Every spicy mouthful steals a blink,
your lashes flutter twice like a nervous spell—
and I am enchanted.

My food cools, untouched.
Yours vanishes, each bite disappearing
into the story of your hunger.
When I offer you more,
you laugh,
slide your plate too far,
topple the glass of water between us.

“Why didn’t I drink this?” you mutter,
grabbing napkins like they’re answers.
I want to ask if you are always this messy
with things you care for.
But I only watch
as you swipe at the spill,
as though it’s urgent.

When it’s cleaned,
I pull my plate between us,
a quiet offering,
a bridge.
You lean forward,
foreheads grazing—
a fragile hello.

“Don’t move,” you whisper,
your breath pooling in the air between us.
“Stay like this. Close.
Like elephants. Did you know they do this?
Heads together, a greeting.”

I don’t tell you
I already knew.
I don’t tell you
I want every moment with you
to feel like this—
strange, and full,
and alive.

aaditya.

December stands still, yet moves within itself,
a solemn breath before the year exhales.
The air whispers secrets of frost and fire,
a quiet warmth nestled in the heart of cold.

Beneath bare trees, life lingers,
fragile as the glass ornaments we cradle,
shining and trembling,
aware of their fragility.

It is the month of hands—
hands to hold close,
hands to wave goodbye.
Snow falls like memory,
each flake a piece of what was,
melting as it lands.

The sky wears both dawn and dusk together,
an endless twilight
where time folds in on itself.
The past feels closer,
the future a breath you cannot catch.

Love in December is fierce,
burning against the chill,
because it knows it must.
Because it knows
it will soon have to let go.

And so, we wrap the year in ribbons,
in the ache of holding on,
in the grace of release.
December, you are the stillness of endings,
the weight of beginnings,
a lesson in everything
we can never quite keep.

aaditya

Whenever I look at a sunflower

it’d remind me of you. 

Sunflowers are metaphors for 

the people around whom you feel alive. 

I have an open field inside of me

wherein the wind echoes your laugh.

The open field has always been filled

with roses, that your presence has watered.

If this is what the poets call love, then I’ve

laced far too many notebooks with the idea of you.

How everything eventually is about you?

How sometimes i go sleepless at nights, but then

How I yearn to sleep a little bit more

because you came into my dreams.

How I grieve when I am not close to you?

But then what is grief, if not love persevering.

What is grief, if not love with no place to go,

that corners in your eyes, and 

in the hollow part of your chest?

What is love, if not the poem 

scracthed on the walls of my throat.

How I’d want to linger near the door

uncomfortably, rather than leaving.

How I’d want you to forget your scarf

and come back later, to find it. 

What is love, if not everything that I feel for you?

For it was when you allowed me to enter

your world, when I was scared of mine. 

Toh aakhir Kaha chala hai man ka rasta? 

Tumhare paas. 

-aaditya.

Loving someone dearly is what we do the best.

Probably better than breathing, we love.

We cling close to it, aware that

we in no way can control it.

Everything seems to be wonderful, 

Filled with colours, rainbows and lights.

We want to stay close, and keep them close.

We want to hold them, and take them home.

Touching of toes, meeting of lips,

Making love with your every bit.

Beginning the days with their name

And wanting to end the same with their breath.

Adamant and ignorant of the fact that,

All of it is just holding roses,

until the thorns press against your fingers.

Letting go is an art of necessity.

We do not want it, but we have to master it.

It wasn’t until I saw in her eyes, that

irrespective of what I feel, it will never be the same for her.

Even Stephen King once said, that sometimes in life

You have to just let the bird go, for

You know it’s not meant to be caged.

When those thorns press so hard,

That you realise that its time to let go,

For it just means that we are all humans

Incapable of holding on to everything,

specially when it hurts the most.

The only barrier to letting go is hope,

We hope that maybe something somehow will work out,

But it never does. It’s always the thorns over the roses.

So, in the end, the whole of loving someone, 

Becomes an act of letting go.

So, take you moment, and take you time,

And bid that farewell with all your heart.

-aaditya

It’s the 17th of December, 6:05 pm,

exactly two months since I last wrote to you.

Have you ever yearned for something

that wasn’t even yours to begin with?

Because I know I have been lost, since so 

long, in something, in you?

The leaves of autumn have fallen dead, and

here I am wanting to have an orange with you.

This winter, it tells me, to finally stand up to you

and tell you that I am so much in love with you.

Its like even the ghost in my closet,

is screaming to let it all out. 

But it’s you we are talking about, 

in front whom I am nothing but an idle candle,

burning in its own flame, and 

standing still nevertheless.

My heart skips a beat and my world stops

as my gaze takes in the sight of her stunning form,

clad in her kurti and a dupatta.

My eyes flicker my heart flutters,

as I gaze upon the goddess of perfection.

But it’s December, the month of letting go.

December holds so much,

the end of best times, and

closure for all that was lost.

A month so hopeful, yet

carries heaviness in its frost.

Maybe this time, I’ll say it all too.

On Christmas’ eve, I’ll meet you at the golden hour,

standing hopefully, you’ll be in my sight, 

and, I’ll give you the yellow flower.

Then? i’ll leave it to december

to teach me that new beginnings,

don’t really require new calendars. 

Because I know, it’s always you.

I’ll spend my eternity, in 

perfecting the subtle art of loving you. 

Today, tomorrow and the day after,

every bit of my love, will be about you.

-aadi.

The leaves have started turning to

shades of yellow, orange and red.

October has finally arrived.

They say that the turning of colours

Is to protect the leaves from cold temperatures.

It’s October 6 today, and I am writing this to you.

The evening today is nice and warm,

Though it’s about to turn cold.

I came nearby the lake we used to visit,

Walked a bit, and even left a note 

for you to read, between the pages of your notebook.

The note said, “meet me by the lakeside, we will sit and talk”.

The lake was still today, and had turned

Orange, as if the sun was drowning in it.

The sky was still alive, while I waited for you.

I asked myself today,

Did you ever want to go far away ? Where would you go?

But I couldn’t find an answer, so I waited for you to give me one.

“Aaj walk Karne chalen? Shaam ko, beside the lake?”, the note said.

It was getting dark, as 2 hours had passed.

I still wanted the answer, and I wanted you there.

I kept walking and talking to the sun.

It didn’t last long, as the sun finally rested in the lake.

It was getting dark, and I kept waiting. 

Maybe the note was misplaced,

The wind was strong today.

And a lot many reasons I gave myself

to hold myself from crying.

“I will wait some other day”, I said to myself.

What happened today?

I waited, you didn’t come.

-aadi.