At the cafe window I watch the city move,
Her saved number glows on my phone new.
My chai goes cold as I sit alone,
Outside the sun, inside a world far from true.

Raindrops trace rivers down the bus window,
Each face blurs away as we go.
A voice note never played waits in my gallery,
This silence grows louder each mile I know.

I held the cracked frame with your faded photo,
Dust in the corners, the memory almost hollow.
Laughter echoes from the neighbour’s verandah tonight,
In my room, only the soft hum of sorrow.

Wet mitti outside, damp smell fills my shoes,
Footprints leading nowhere old or new.
The world rushes on in shiny cars and noise,
Behind this closed door I choose to disappear from view.

No messages blink on a bright festival night,
Every diya flickers, hoping for some light.
My hands fill plates, my heart fills with air,
Even sweet kheer cannot make this right.

That old kurta waits, draped on my chair,
Creases still shaped by your absent care.
The mirror dusts over, stories unfinished remain,
Some mornings break with nothing there.

The bazaar is alive with colors and sound,
Lonely walk past bangles you once found.
People bargain over fruit, laughter rings clear,
My pocket is heavy, my eyes search the ground.

Between wet tiles in the evening’s gloom,
Our whispers linger, lost in my empty room.
Voices from the hallway remind me of then,
But only the clock speaks in this quiet tomb.

Your handwriting stains old birthday cards,
Faded ink, promises made in scattered shards.
Books still open to pages you loved best,
Yet sentences falter now, struggling for rest.

Cups on the table, sugar left untouched,
Friends ask why my laughter is clutched.
I nod and pour tea, needing a reason,
Your absence sweetens every season.

Through half-open curtains I see the moon’s face,
Memories queue in the darkness, none to replace.
A gentle breeze moves the curtain’s edge,
Inside my bed, feeling nowhere in this space.

A single gulab tucked inside my old bag,
Petals dry out, memories begin to sag.
The bus lurches—no one saves me a seat,
Carrying you forward in every drag.

Your name flickers on my phone screen so slow,
A single chaadar left behind, cold in the glow.

By the chai stall, warmth drains from my glass,
Strangers laugh nearby while hours quietly pass.

A torn rickshaw ticket in my old wallet remains,
I count every bus, but none bring you again.

Sweat on the table, water circles stay,
I wish they faded as easily as you walked away.

Dust settles over the books on your shelf,
Each cover untouched, forgotten by yourself.

Between laundry lines a lonely scarf swings,
The wind returns every day, but never brings.

Under the single bulb in this narrow gali,
Your missing voice clings to the cracked thali.

The gate sighs open, footsteps echo thin,
Every shadow is louder since you’ve not been.

On the rooftop, laundry flutters against the blue,
All this open space and still I miss you.

Beeps from passing autos fade into the night,
One plate, one glass, nothing feels right.

Your sandal’s mark pressed deep in the mat,
Visitors come and go but nothing changes that.

Beneath the neem tree, leaves hush the ground,
Between every whisper, your silence is found.

Clouds gather outside as I wait by the door,
Each evening brings a new silence, nothing more.
Leaves press against the window’s tiring sigh,
Routine fills the room but never asks why.

In the kitchen, one spoon drops as I stand,
Life teaches quietly, never holding my hand.
A cracked cup leans near the basin’s edge,
Loss finds its way through every pledge.

Paper boats in the gutter sail without care,
My phone stays blank, dull light in the air.
Even laughter from the next house sounds cold,
Some lessons stain deeper than can be told.

Tea cools in my glass before I remember to sip,
Another harsh truth buried beneath the lip.
The old mangalsutra hanging from a nail swings slow,
What once sparkled now refuses to glow.

Paint flakes off the gate as night comes near,
Hope is a visitor that rarely stops here.
Wind stirs the lilies my mother once grew,
Old sapna flickers, but never feels true.

Along the footpath where the pebbles bite,
Shoes fill with dust under fading light.
A neighbor’s loud greeting fades with my smile,
What weighs most cannot travel a mile.

Broken bangles glitter faintly in the dust,
Promises rust faster than metal can trust.
Every calendar page holds a quiet defeat,
Life’s sharp edges never taste sweet.

The fridge hums on, its shelves half bare,
Nothing inside fits the hunger I wear.
My reflection blurs behind foggy glass,
Pain lingers in silence after you pass.

Crow calls echo over empty terrace stone,
Wishing for a message, my hands clutch the phone.
Even the paratha feels heavy, cold with each bite,
Truth sits tighter in the absence of fight.

Rainwater pools around my waiting shoes,
Sometimes the simplest walk is hardest to choose.
Every chameli wilts as summer turns slow,
Not all endings show you where to go.

At bus stops, faces blend with early sun,
Longing marks the end before it’s begun.
Even pigeons scatter breadcrumbs in haste,
No amount of mithai can sweeten this taste.

An umbrella leans forgotten near the gate,
Old songs crackle from a radio that’s late.
Every mirror in this room hints at routes lost,
The heart learns hard lessons, whatever the cost.

My reflection stares back from the train glass,
Every station asks if things ever last.

Bare feet on cool marble, listening for home,
Life’s small cruelties teach without a poem.

Broken chapal by the doorstep, left by mistake,
Some lessons never soften, no matter what we stake.

Your old sms waits, silence hanging in air,
Regret weighs heavier than any worry I bear.

A cracked mirror remembers the faces I fled,
Not everything heals after the harshest words said.

Sunset clings to the walls in pale, dhoop gold,
Even laughter feels borrowed when memories grow old.

At the window, colours fade with the dying light,
Truth in the stillness, nothing feels right.

On rusted swings in a quiet mohalla ground,
Stories repeat themselves without a sound.

Shirt sleeves rolled tight as I walk the lane,
Growing up means learning to walk with pain.

Silver anklet glints under layers of dust,
In every ending, someone loses what they trust.

Bangles forgotten in a fabric covered tin,
Each goodbye feels different once silence settles in.

Over the remains of cold paratha, morning breaks,
Sometimes the hardest lesson is what absence makes.

Chai cools in a forgotten glass,
its warmth like hugs I cannot ask.
Promises linger in kitchen corners,
the clock ticks heavy, refusing to pass.

Old photographs peek from the cupboard shelf,
eyes of yesterday searching for self.
The rustle of plastic from grocery bags,
reminds me what I lost when you left.

Your kurta hangs on the bathroom door,
tucked sleeves collecting quiet floor.
Midnight’s breeze stirs lived-in cotton,
yet footsteps echo emptiness more.

Whispers hide between yellowed pages,
gently folded dreams from younger ages.
The sound of slippers on distant stairs,
emptiness lingers, nothing erases.

I carry words unsaid in my pocket,
crumbled notes hidden in a old rocket.
On the balcony, pigeons chatter of love,
even they have learned not to mock it.

Cups stacked by the old clay sink,
waiting for laughter, too tired to think.
Mitti clings to the soles of my shoes,
the memory of monsoon, heavy as ink.

Lights flicker through cracked window glass,
shadows crawling where your laughter was.
Hing spice clings to yesterday’s air,
yet dinner settles heavy, never quite solace.

Bus tickets crumpled in my back jeans,
schedules crushed in yesterday’s scenes.
At every crossing I feel your dard,
some losses press deeper than they seem.

In the mirror, a face I barely recall
shaving cream drying on morning’s small call.
Outside, neighbours sweep their step in peace,
this quiet fights me, after all.

Loose coins rattle in the blue tin box,
your handwriting smudged on a bundle of socks.
The fan hums slowly through half-closed eyes,
restless dreams pacing, never unlocked.

Bedspread tugged where you slept last,
pillow smells faint of adrak chai past.
A koel’s call floats from the neem outside,
even familiar songs feel cast.

Sun leaks under the half-open gate,
skip of a cycle, rusted and late.
Tanhai settles deep in the garden’s gloom,
some departures arrive and simply wait.

The chai glass cools slowly on the steel tray,
Lessons of loss echo louder each new day. 🫖😔

Bus window fogs with each shaky breath taken,
Old jokes on my phone now feel so mistaken. 🚌📱

A single earring waits on bare marble tile,
Fate teaches with a silence that lingers awhile. 💧👂

Rain makes rivers on the cracked cement floor,
This dard refuses to leave, pulling me more. 🌧️💔

Tea stains on the table, untouched and cold,
Strange how some stories stay silently untold. 🍵😞

Light from the hall bends around my closed door,
Every goodbye feels heavier than before. 🚪😔

A faded ticket hides in my jammed wallet,
Bazaar noises outside, inside only quiet. 🎟️🛍️

The old clock’s song keeps slipping off beat,
Some truths arrive slow and never retreat. 🕰️👣

Shehnai in the distance, echo through the night,
A mitti’s faint smell drifts lonely in white. 🎶🥀

I sit behind the shop counting change once more,
Lost amid faces I no longer adore. 💸🧑‍🤝‍🧑

Drops collect on my window as new hours begin,
Tanhai comes dressed in everyday din. 🌧️🤍

A broken key sits jagged on my rusted ring,
Tomorrow whispers what today cannot bring. 🗝️🌒

Cool wind snaps through the chai stall door,
I set down the glass, but I still want more.

Under streetlights, a forgotten kurta sleeve swings,
Some things leave, but pride always clings.

Watching raindrops race down this dusty bus window,
I never needed sympathy, just space to grow.

Empty dabba on my table, leftovers gone cold,
Loss sharpens the edge, never lets me fold.

Eyes scan faces in every bazaar crowd,
Self-respect walks taller, head unbowed.

Between old textbooks, your faded gulal stains stay,
Tomorrow’s ambition pins shadows today.

Lost in traffic, my playlist skips every sad song,
If pain brings attitude, let heartbreak make me strong.

Outside the tea shop, strangers laugh too loud,
But I walk through the noise, ego unbowed.

Fingers tap the cracked phone, unread messages remain,
Moving forward alone never feels the same.

Dust on shoes as I step past the college gate,
Some ties unravel so others create.

Vendor calls echo, evening bazaar lights flick,
Pride stands steady where memories don’t stick.

Pavement under my feet, I leave footprints in mitti,
Confidence in my walk, even when days turn gritty.

Lights flicker on behind every shut curtain,
The street below stretches lonely, repeating,
Children call out, their cricket ball lost,
An old lock holds silence where you once waited.

My phone screen glows with unread messages,
Every swipe a reminder your name won’t appear,
The air hangs thick with yesterday’s laughter,
Some empty chairs never soften with time passing.

Near the bus window, raindrops carve patterns,
Outside, a world painted grey and unmoved,
Between the crowd and my own heartbeat,
Your shadow is loudest in this restless city rush.

Stacked newspapers pile near the brown doorway,
Sparrow calls echo against peeling paint,
Light moves across walls, slow as an old story,
I measure days by when I last heard your name.

Dust gathers along corners of my study table,
Even the clock ticks slow, waiting for a noise,
A faded kurta hangs behind the open shelf,
Only your old perfume dares to stay so long.

The lamp flickers on as evening taps the glass,
A half-done crossword flattens beneath my hand,
From narrow lanes, bazaar echoes feel distant,
Even crowded roads can feel empty in these hours.

Leaves drift over wet tiles after rainfall,
Shoes by the door look at me, never moved,
I answer every knock with silent hope,
Long goodbyes have a way of stealing tomorrow too.

Mitti clings to my shoes from last Sunday,
On rooftops, kids fly kites into tangled wires,
Even blue skies bend a little for longing hearts,
Some names are never written in the wind we chase.

The milkman’s bell rings sharp at six,
I draw the curtain, sun finds an empty spot,
Banana peels wait in last night’s plate—
Without your laughter, even my breakfast feels paused.

Plastic wrappers litter the stairway again,
Someone left mehendi stains near the lift,
The neighbourhood dog limps, memories heavy as his gaze,
Some moments choose not to heal, no matter the season.

Old receipts tumble from the kitchen drawer,
I fold each one, searching for your handwriting,
Next to the rice jar, a single bindi stays bright,
Some details remain when the rest of the house forgets.

Towels hang uneven on rusted pegs,
A thali reflects ceiling fans turning slow,
Neighbours laugh in the flat next door,
Between two songs, your memory walks quietly through my hall.

Shadows billow by the gate, evening runs thin
Old slippers next to yours sit, waiting for nothing
A tiny chalk mark fading on the kitchen wall
Loss sits between cut fruit and the empty sink.

A tiffin box rattles, light with absence,
Chappals knock on the step but only mine return,
Smells of dal rise slow from the neighbour’s flat,
Your laughter holds where the lamp-flicker turns.

The television’s glow finds my empty chair,
Steam coils from chai I keep making for two,
Fan blades chase stories that don’t reach the phone,
Stillness sings sharper when the day is through.

Patang string tangles in the balcony corner,
Your name scrawled small on a dusty note,
Wind stirs wrappers by the old bicycle chain,
Time changes locks but not the way I hope.

Paint chips away on a door we never closed,
Uneaten biscuit gone stale in its plate,
The mitti smell in rain brings you back soft,
Grief sits, unnoticed, with the coins by the gate.

Piles of novels slump near the torn sofa side,
Remote out of battery, nobody cares,
A flicker of sunset clings to the window grill,
Missing you is a mess that daily repairs.

Curtains move when the metro roars by,
One shoe by the doorstep never paired again,
A dried mehndi stain circles on my palm,
Some open spaces are crowded with pain.

My playlist repeats the wrong old song,
Sunlight creeps where our photos used to lie,
Samosa crumbs rest by the phone’s cold glass,
Memories fumble the words when I try.

Sweet dhoop climbs over half-read papers,
A duffel bag slumps unlaced on the floor,
One-sided laughter peeks from the neighbour’s wall,
What hurts most are the keys in my drawer.

Rainwater pools on the edge of the gate,
Your handwriting dying on a bus pass stub,
The calendar page stuck at a hopeful day,
Dust settles faster than news of your goodbye.

Plastic bags press our faded picnic map,
Your jumka caught still in my sweater fold,
The chill from the tiles sneaks up with night,
A whole city waits where you never called.

Under streetlight, my cycle leans on its stand,
Downstairs the chaiwala wipes up the spill,
Your bottle cap spins in the gravel near mine,
Some emptiness wraps you closer still.

On this cracked bus window, the city rushes by but hope stays still.

Late at night, your name sticks to the bottom of my chai glass.

Your old kurta hangs by my door, soft with yesterday’s wind.

My shadow leaves before I do, tracing memories you left behind.

Dust settles on the photo frame where smiles don’t visit now.

Streetlight glimmers on wet mitti, each drop missing your step.

Losing you felt like missing a train I had never boarded.

My reflection in the cold glass blurs, missing a story only you knew.

Mornings taste empty, not even nimbu chai brings back your laugh.

Your note sits hidden in a book, untouched like quiet dard.

Rain puddles hold sky and silence where our footprints once played.

Some sorrows cling to sunlight, refusing to melt into day.

Dry leaves gather under the bench outside,
A cold wind lifts nothing of what we shared.
I look for your name in the passing faces,
But the rain stains my hopes before I call.

Headphones tangled, your playlist still plays,
Each song holding a pause I can’t fill.
Staring at ceiling cracks in the half-light,
Silence does not soften, only spills.

Stairs echo empty, my steps come slow,
The window glass fogs beneath my breath.
A forgotten dupatta on the chair still waits,
While memory stands guard at the door we left.

Rickshaw horns fade in the street below,
Shadows flicker over peeling blue paint.
Your laughter is far, lost past the alley shop,
I trace your absence in the crowded lane.

The swing in the park moves with no one near,
A stray dog dozes near the old half-wall.
Flooded in sunlight, the world stays the same,
But inside my kurta pocket, I find nothing warm.

Plastic bag twisting on drying lines,
The sun burns quick through my shut window.
One slipper abandoned by the wooden rack,
Some departures never ask before they go.

Dull red lipstick on my chai cup’s rim,
I hold the warmth but release the taste,
Outside, the pigeons gather by an empty pot,
Regret lingers longer than yesterday’s paste.

Sweater sagging on the unused chairback,
Today’s news rolled and tossed in the dust.
Morning comes mild, mocking as ever,
Even the milkman’s call cannot reach my trust.

Steam rising from the battered patila,
Mitti smell sharp from the neighbour’s floor.
Your laughter walks past, left in the air,
Yet the sundown brings only my shadow to the door.

Click of the cupboard, broken hinge sings,
Inside, old wrappers hide your secret smile.
Daylight pools silent on the kitchen tiles,
Loneliness stacks neatly beside the oil and spice.

Bindi box unopened on the window sill,
Mosquito coil painting smoke in slow circles,
Outside the auto waits with nobody calling,
Distance wraps tighter than my faded shawl.

A bus window blurs clouds over the flyover,
Hands pressed cold on the dusty glass frame.
No words left to send, messages unsaid,
Love leans heavy where only longing came.

Night paints the quiet walls, as lonely as stone
A torn kurta sleeve drapes where you had known
The slippers at the doorway still wait for your feet
Nothing inside but the echo of leaving and heat.

I count hours, stretching like wires above the bus stand
One chai stall glows, untouched glass in someone’s hand
No voice on the wind, no call from your street
Through the dust, I walk home with memories incomplete.

Crow’s shadow flickers on the afternoon floor
Whisper of mitti from seasons before
You left a calendar pinned with unfinished plans
As if empty dates could answer demands.

My hand reaches for the window, palm against rain
Gulab petals scattered across seat, quiet with pain
Dry laughter on lips, never making a sound
Your goodbye is the heaviest thing I have found.

Sun warms half the pillow, you used to sleep near
Under the plastic fan, only your absence clear
I measure the day by the weight of each sigh
Every pulse remembers how slow time goes by.

School bell rings but the gate stays closed for me
Between uniform rows I am nowhere to be
Your voice was a safar, gentle and true
Now only strangers drift into view.

In the mirror, dim light makes my hair look gray
Silver lines stronger since you went away
Faded mehndi on fingers curled tight in my palm
Your scent in the scarf, quiet as calm.

Plastic bucket by the tap stands empty and blue
Growing lines in the plaster, remembering you
Neighbors’ voices rise and fall behind my wall
Only your silence refuses to call.

Bus window gathers city smog, blurring each lane
My hands cold around the handle, counting every pane
Friends wave and scatter, nobody looks behind
Journey and jagah, neither feel like mine.

Mangoes ripen on the balcony, yellow and sweet
Ants find what remains, dancing at my feet
I watch until sunset climbs up the wall
Everything ripe here, except one missed call.

A key grows rusty, locked in the drawer
No laughter, only the hum of the old fridge door
I fold your dupatta, soft as apology once
You left no note, only reasons that haunt.

Posters peeling above my desk trace a patient year
Each faded corner reminds me you’re not here
Chalk dust clings to forgotten words we drew
Promise breaks in daylight, quieter than dew.

The afternoon sunlight climbs the peeling wall,
Each crack remembers when you used to call.
I carry your words as quiet as mitti on skin,
Pain grows patient, but never thin.

Shoes scattered at the threshold, yours missing in the row,
Nothing really ends with one heavy goodbye, I know.
This gap between our plates at dinner keeps widening,
Lessons burn slow, with no passing bell chiming.

On the bus, faces blur behind rain-stitched glass,
My own reflection asks questions I cannot pass.
Friends say to unburden, to share the load,
Truth spills heavier, sweeping down this silent road.

A diary left open between the half swept floor,
Promises described in lines now sore.
Faint chai stains trace circles of what used to be,
Some hopes curdle, unseen as they flee.

Laundry pins hold no kurta of yours today,
Wind tugs my sleeve as if to play.
Still, not all emptiness is loud or clear,
Some absences teach more than they appear.

A shadow on the garden wall lengthens with the sun,
Your laughter, remembered, weighs a ton.
Neighbors wave, their smiles brief as kites,
Sometimes a wave is harder than fights.

The ceiling fan turns above my still bed,
Words piled up in this room remain unsaid.
My pillow learned early whom to believe,
Lesson: not all departures choose to leave.

A list half-written on the kitchen shelf,
I read each task as if convincing myself.
Unwashed spoons gather in a stubborn heap,
Nothing so ordinary should make me weep.

Doorbell rings and footsteps echo down to none,
Hope is a stray patang tangled in sun.
This aching wait draws out every hour,
Patience is a test, and longing its power.

A pack of forgotten tickets, dust between the dates,
Time peels memory into uneven slates.
Pigeons stir at my balcony as if they know,
Some promises break without putting on a show.

Old slippers curl by the foot of my door,
No familiar knock, just creaks in the floor.
Sometimes a memory smells of spilled haldi,
Nothing explains why the small things stay ready.

On the cracked road, shadows walk beside me,
The silence after rain brings what’s meant to be.
Each lesson etched in the potholes we dodge,
Loss is the map and pain the only lodge.

That chai glass rests on its side, still warm
Your name broken across a receipt, torn
Allah, I count the stains on this marble floor
Each mark asks what forgiveness is for.

The ceiling fan hums as I eat alone
Your kurta folded on my chair, so worn
Even the calendar drags the evenings slow
Allah knows how long memories can grow.

Rains splatter the bus window with noise
Lights blur, reflecting vanished joys
Allah, the world rushes on too fast
Yet every corner here still holds your past.

You left the radio playing an old song
One lonely rumaal on the floor all along
Somewhere the words refuse to move ahead
Allah, even music tastes of things unsaid.

On the balcony, slippers gather dust
Children laugh near the gate, unaware of trust
Allah, your stories do not echo in this street
A blue sky but my smile feels incomplete.

The fridge hums soft where leftovers hide
I swipe through photos that will not confide
Allah, what do I do with things you left behind?
Every sari fold reminds me what I can’t rewind.

Your handwriting fades on that torn envelope
Between grocery lists and a tiny hope
Allah, how clear the space becomes after a storm
Yet inside me, nothing feels warm.

Streetlights blink outside this window frame
Each passing rickshaw brings no blame
Allah, carrying your goodbye at the traffic's red
My hands fumble for answers in words unsaid.

I water the dying tulsi by the rail
Old sandals wait, remembering your trail
Allah, prayers drift with the dusk to somewhere far
The plants know silence better than we are.

The kitchen clock ticks as water spills slow
Beside the stove, a single bowl in a row
Allah, maybe hunger is just another kind of ache
Steel plates ring but do not break.

On sunlit stairs your shadow grew thin
The wind brings scent of mitti after the din
Allah, I listen for your voice in passing cloud
Still, the answer never comes aloud.

Your spare umbrella waits behind the main door
Raindrops tap on tiles you no longer explore
Allah, some shelters never keep the storm away
The hallway stretches longer each day.

Rain taps against glass as I count the distance in days,
my old kurta hangs on the door, colors almost faded too far.
Friends laugh in the next room, their noise a soft parade,
I wonder which ache will finally carry me past their war.

My feet trace cold tiles where our shadows used to fall,
keys weighed down in my pocket like promises left behind.
Your chai spoon rests, untouched, a story I don’t recall,
even salt in tears forgets the taste I tried to find.

Night gathers fast on the terrace, moon floats between wires,
sweat and kajal fading together at the edge of silent air.
Head held high in the mirror, each stare is my squire,
but these walls remember your voice in colors only I bear.

Morning makes a theatre of unopened messages still,
as the bazaar wakes, my laughter stays folded in drawers.
They call it attitude when I choose my silence at will,
but mitti holds secrets shaped quietly from old wars.

The bus window carries my face beside strangers drifting by,
a jhumka lost somewhere beneath yesterday’s seat.
Small hopes pressed like petals between books I deny,
I gather them back, even if pride means another defeat.

Long shadows twist towards my single plate at noon,
dupatta stripes breaking up the patterns on my bed.
Words gather at my lips, curdling old tunes,
but no one asks about the cold spaces left unsaid.

Bangles stacked high inside a drawer nobody sees,
sky flashes stories in the puddle outside my gate.
They mistake chin high for a cure, never ease,
while I measure the hurt in how quietly I wait.

Under fairy lights, my friends dance and tease,
the thali is heavy, but my heart stays thin.
This is not drama, only the cost of release,
a single gulab on the table, bruised from within.

Ringing phones cross my threshold till sunset falls low,
silence spills from the fridge humming in my ear.
Eyes search for answers in the mithai box’s slow woe,
and the empty wrapper reminds me who is not here.

A festival passes unheard through my unlit balcony,
diary pressed flat under pillows uneven with doubt.
They see only velvet—miss a spine that won’t bend for pity,
my story collects in corners they never talk about.

Wind catches my dupatta as shadows cross the lane,
matching footsteps slow where once laughter went before.
This stubborn smile walks through another day’s rain,
ance your name dances quieter than it ever did before.

Cups line the shelf, untouched since you went away,
new calendar pages hide the ache beneath colored dates.
Neighbors say time will heal, but offer nothing to say,
and the evening breeze carries answers that nobody states.

Monsoon water pools on the stairs outside,
A silence stretches where you once stood near.
The chai glass sweats between my anxious hands,
Raindrops gather, pretending you are here.

Morning sunlight paints my faded bedsheet,
A pile of unsent letters gathers dust by the mug.
I keep rearranging the books on my shelf,
Trying to quiet the shor underneath my hug.

The cracked teacup rests on your side of the tray,
My words hang heavy, never finding their way.
Curtains flutter quietly with questions of if,
Windows repeat your goodbye across each new day.

Wet mitti clings to the edge of my shoe,
Your laughter lingers in rooms still empty of news.
I watch the neighbour’s swing move in the breeze,
Each wave reminding what it means to lose.

Three spoons in the sugar jar, none of them yours,
Your kurta still guards the chair by my door.
I keep lighting incense after your memory fades,
Not knowing which smoke is hope and which smoke is war.

A cracked watch face stares up from my palm,
My footsteps echo on this cold hallway floor.
Old photos peel away at their own slow pace,
Every light in this room pretends it remembers before.

Rinsed plates stack on a sink you never filled,
That old sweater slumps on the kitchen stool.
A bus window pushes behind me the city we shared,
Still I miss the place only we knew was cool.

Ink stains gather in corners of last night's list,
Your name folded under every unspoken demand.
Even the mala on my wrist sits too loose today,
Some emptiness grows where your touch used to land.

The balcony crack splits wide in the heat,
My words pale out in unfamiliar light.
Night crowds the edges of my restless sheet,
I count the spaces left untouched by spite.

I drop my keys into a bowl by the gate,
Your slippers untouched in the entrance dust.
A single imli pod rests where you once waited,
The taste of missing keeps turning to rust.

Shards of broken glass gleam on the sill,
Your kalam left behind on the table’s edge.
Camphor thickens the air with memory’s weight,
And the night grows heavier with each unsaid pledge.

The fan spins lazy circles, fighting the heat,
Two cups of tea cool, untouched, alone.
Street lights catch your reflection on my screen,
Distance presses in, louder than the phone.

Steam from chai glass rises and fades too soon
My hands search for warmth, not found in this room
Mitti sticks in the grooves of my shoes tonight
Nothing left but traces where you used to sit tight.

A cracked mirror holds two versions of me
One remembers, the other pretends to be free
My eyes lose shape in the morning light
Your memory sharp as winter, never polite.

Plastic chairs fill the balcony, waiting for talk
The wind brings silence, heavy as a locked clock
I keep counting the tiles along the hallway wall
Finding your absence tucked behind it all.

Scratches mark my old school bench, old year’s scene
Your name beside mine, letters lost in between
A faint smell of mitti after last night’s rain
Reminds me that healing doesn’t mean no pain.

Oil stains gather near the stove, refusing to fade
Dinner for one, cold rotis lined in parade
The flicker of the tubelight amplifies the ache
I eat in shadow, not sure what hope might take.

Through the cracked window, bus horns pierce the routine
My bag heavy, yet lighter than what might have been
The rush of bazaar below cannot hide my sigh
The world keeps trading stories while I pass by.

Old slippers lie crooked on the doormat still
No purpose left for comfort, just the evening chill
Between two seasons, curtains flutter in defeat
And somewhere behind them, your memory repeats.

My palms catch the sweat from a chai cup’s rim
Outside, a cycle bell calls and then goes dim
A stray kurta slumps on the chair you never took
Tired cotton holds your shape, that was never in the book.

Under yellow streetlights, the puddle holds the moon
Rickshaw waits empty, tires humming a lazy tune
Voices trail off in corners of the sleeping park
My shadow grows slender, searching for a familiar mark.

Ceiling fan sings slowly, chopping thick air
Long talks now numbers saved I never dare
One tanhai fills the whole room’s space
You left it behind, not a single trace.

Ink smudges gather on a worn-out test pad
Answers erased, questions more than I had
Fingers brush crumbs from the cheap desk surface
Each silence weighs more than last year’s purpose.

The fridge hums alone in the corner, blinking blue
Vegetables untouched, wilting slow without you
I open the door for cold and nothing else
Still hoping for warmth in a place that repels.

Steam rises from my chai glass, silent and warm,
Old songs drifting through bus horns and alarm,
This city teaches jagged lessons, no disguise,
My hands shake as I choose what to leave behind.

A faded kurta dries slow on the breeze,
Promises tangled in threads that never appease,
We learn with each loss how small we can grow,
And notice who lets go first, as sunlight gets low.

Mitti clings to my shoes, home pressed at the door,
Dreams sift like sand, don't mean much anymore,
Lessons arrive in footprints trailing behind,
Regret wears the calm that time cannot find.

Shuttered bazaar, and it's too late to roam,
Feet restless, aching for welcome or home,
The crowd passes careless, but the ache does not yield,
We swallow our words, alone in the field.

Backlit by bulbs, strangers gather to eat,
Easy smiles echo along the busy street,
But peace escapes me, a held in breath,
This hunger for comfort never forgets.

Scribbles on this notebook, corners torn and curled,
Schoolyard chalk now lost in the world,
Every lesson stings harder written too late,
And sometimes even the future will hesitate.

Through the cracked window, rain blurs faces apart,
Old friends now shadows, new silence in my heart,
Chai cools unnoticed, lips remember the heat,
It's loneliness that lingers after sweetness repeats.

Silver anklet circles the dust by my bed,
Reminders that yesterday said what I never said,
Another story gets folded, tucked somewhere deep,
Some lessons you hold, though they cost you sleep.

Leaves gather at my doorstep, careless in piles,
Mornings taught patience, afternoons guile,
I mop tiled floors hoping pain will slip too,
But wet footprints keep returning, darker than dew.

The din of traffic hides tears that I fake,
Plastic thali cradles the dinner I make,
Life's teachings arrive, ready or not,
Salt in the dal says more than I thought.

Curtains half-open, letting in restless heat,
Days stretch onward, lessons repeat,
Shabnam beads trickle slow off the wires,
Not every blessing survives what life requires.

Late train on the sidetrack, empty as hope,
Ticket crumpled tight in a too-small envelope,
We learn waiting means staying with pain,
And the pause between stations grows longer, again.

The air from your open window still tastes of promises told at midnight.
Three rusted keys lie unclaimed near the mirror you never liked.
Even words on the calendar lean away from tomorrow.
On this welcome mat, all i bring home is loss.

The chai glass sits, your lipstick mark fading under kitchen light.
My jalebi grows cold and slow on a paper plate for one.
So many plans were scribbled on tissue and time.
Now i listen to spoons scrape, trying to hear your goodbye.

Between footsteps echoing on mosaic floor,
Your duptta once danced, soft as morning before work.
The street below still smells of samosa and rain.
I walk through this bazaar as if you might return to claim me.

You left with the last bus, its tail lights a shaky promise in murky lanes.
Even the paanwala asks where you disappeared with your half-smile.
Was all this trouble just a game we never understood?
In the window glass, i count scars that never agreed to heal.

The old wall clock ticks lazy in humid afternoon.
Your laughter sits in the chipped mitti cup, silent and cool.
Neighbours whisper stories into shadows of broken evenings.
A new plant grows crooked, reaching for hands that let go.

Two umbrellas hang, awkward, inside the blue-tiled stairwell.
Your perfume lingers stubbornly between sweaters that miss monsoon.
My pockets hold a slip of paper with no address or name.
I have nowhere to send the ache that remains here.

Side table holds your forgotten kajal, untouched since eid.
On the windowsill ants crawl over spilled sugar, like old fights replayed.
Every morning soundtrack skips at your favourite song.
I rearrange the books, wondering if longing has an order.

Morning sunlight falls across our faded newspaper stack,
The milkman calls out, but i pretend to be busy with nothing.
Once we planned a life into small steel containers and waiting trains.
Today’s lunch is leftover hope in a room unshared.

Someone else’s laughter travels through these thin hostel walls.
Your old kurta folded sharp still asks for its owner’s scent.
Time creaks heavy in the hinges and my tea grows bitter.
I stop winding the alarm, afraid to wake up alone again.

Gulab petals scatter along the cracked tiles near your frame.
Mango pickle bottles line up, waiting for hands that won’t unscrew them.
Afternoons without your shade pull new maps across the ceiling.
Even shadows want to belong, but finding isn’t the same as staying.

Sparrows dart through balcony grills you wiped clear each dawn.
A half-used bottle of coconut oil sits behind empty shampoo sachets.
Silver anklet left in a hurry still hums against chipped wood.
You stitched memories into curtains, but no window keeps you in.

I see your handwriting on old school notebooks stacked beside the stove.
In each doodle a little storm waits beneath the ink.
There is comfort in memories but not in this silence at noon.
Hope walks circles in the verandah, barefoot and lost.