Fake diamond rings.

Fake diamond rings

I don’t think I’ve ever written about first love or high-school crush or anything of that sort. So, here it is! It’s my variation on first love where two girls really like each other and then stuff happens. I do hope you like it! Tell me about your first crush in the comments!


You were a reflection of me.

From the way you walked,
to the way you tied your hair.
Your footsteps were introverted –
soft, silent, careful
they didn’t like making too much noise
because what if the others didn’t want to listen?
Half-buns were your go-to,
because your first love liked your hair to be open,
and your last love liked them tied,
and you wanted to carry both their essence in the folds
of your brown hair.
You always had a reason for everything you did
and that’s what made you most like me.
Valentine’s 2014,
we got each other the same presents –
fake diamond rings wrapped in the gloves
that I’d worn on our first date. You’d kept one of the pair,
as a memory.

Continue reading Fake diamond rings.

Time stamps.

Time stamps.

It’s been a while. Here’s a little something I wrote. It’s about diaries and memories and tragedies. Also, wine. There’s also a few tv show references that I’d be very happy to clear if you don’t get it. Let me know in the comments. Also, tell me if you liked it and tell me about your favorite person by using their (estimate) time stamp.


“Happy stories are like glasses of wine. They don’t last forever unless you have a big bottle hidden somewhere.” – The first page of Ellen’s diary.

More often than not, even your diary isn’t the best hiding place for all your stories. Mostly because of how careless most human beings tend to be. Ellen knew this and so, she used code names for everyone in her diary. Her brother, born a year after her on May 5th at five minutes past midnight was 0005. Her parents were 0000, she’d known them forever. Do you see the pattern? Her codenames were the time stamps of her first meeting with the people the name is for. She even followed the 24-hour time so that she never ends up mixing two names. 

He was 0245. They’d met in the only store open past midnight when she’d gone to buy candies. She didn’t have enough cash so he chipped in and she thanked him by giving him a candy and her number. Later that night, in her diary, 0245 was the most beautiful boy she’d ever met. “He walked so softly, his footsteps were barely audible on the hardwood floors of the store. His eyes did not know what silence was, though. He had chocolate-dipped strawberry eyes. That boy,” she wrote on and on about him.

They started texting back and forth and often stayed up together way past midnight. They created art together about the ocean’s rage when the moon forgot to text, the lost men who lived at home, the tracks that the sun leaves behind, the songs of half-filled wine glasses and drunk people. She wrote poems and he drew. It was a happy story. There were ballroom dances in bedrooms, pizzas and tv shows. He showed her Barney, she showed him Joey. She ate the pizza, he ate the cheese-dipped crust. He drew on her, she wrote poetry on his skin.

They didn’t have a big bottle of wine. They ran out of things to do and reasons to love. 0245 was the first one to fall out of love. He was a good man (like Theon), so he knew he couldn’t hold onto Ellen, he couldn’t hurt someone he loved once. So he broke up. He drew her a candy in the shape of a broken heart and wrote her a poem about paper-cuts on hearts. Something very break-up-ish. He gave it to her on a Sunday morning and they spent the day talking about memories – finding the right ones to heal, together.

Her diary weeped that night, “I ran out of strawberries. I ran out of candies.”

She had to write about him and she had to heal but 0245 – his first time stamp – wasn’t the best way to do it. It reminded her of the start of the story. So that night, she asked to meet him in the candy store and kissed him goodbye at 02:45 – his new time stamp.


Into poetry? – Trigger alert
Instagram – @myspirals

Poetry on her skin.

Poetry on her skin.

Hey! I wrote this poem based off of a prompt I got from another poem by the same name. Check it out here: “click me”. I hope you like it! Also, I deliberately put in a reference to Marvel because Avengers: Endgame is always on my mind. Enjoy the poem and tell me what you thought!


1957,
one autumn night,
she asked me to write poetry on her skin.
It was right after I’d kissed her waist
and told her how her skin reminded me of paint –
of blue seas, white birds, yellow autumn leaves, and red wine,
every shade that made her human.
She smiled because she knew the artist in me was talking.
She took a pen and gave it to me
and asked me to color her with shades of poetry.

Continue reading Poetry on her skin.

Too much.

Too much.

It’s been a while. Hey! I hope you like this. It’ll mean a lot to me if you can share this with your friends through the buttons at the bottom of every post. Do share if you like it and let me know if you did in the comments section. Also, tell me what breaks your heart. Enjoy!


Steve was heartbroken the day Husky died but was always afraid to admit it because he believed heartbreaks had become cliché. There were too many poets writing about it, too many eyes crying over it, too many stories ending because of it. He believed heartbreaks had become ‘too much’ and he was born a minimalist.

Continue reading Too much.

Cinderella’s shoes.

Cinderella’s shoes.

“Upon the palms of my hand, I have written your name.”  – Isaiah 49:16

Never had he felt the warmth of her fingers before. He had anticipated it to be like the warm sun on a cold morning, something that would make him shiver and smile. He had imagined it to be like hot coffee or the softest quilt, or the rush of caffeine in his veins, and pictured it to be normal, with a shade of love. It was nothing like it.

Late at night that first day, as they looked at each other, too tired to say anything, he touched her face. His fingers trailed on her skin, as he touched her cheeks. They were cold and he would want it no other way. He held her face and looked at her as shivers ran through him. And then she touched his face. Her fingers trailed on his skin. They were cold and he would want it no other way. Everything inside him froze, except where she held him. He felt no rush of blood, and he could feel her fingers getting colder. And he liked it. It was like walking toward the sunset.

He placed his hand on top of hers, and let the fingers intertwine. They fit like puzzle pieces. The cold was slowly ebbing away. The warmth was returning to their fingers, their cheeks were getting redder, and their eyes were locked onto each other. It was 3:04 A.M. and he remembered something. “Nothing good happens after 2 A.M.” And he knew he was screwed. That made him happy.

They say hands are like Cinderella’s shoes – magical.
They say hands are what makes tomorrows.

With her hand in mine, I think I had more than just tomorrows. This wasn’t normal, with a shade of love. This was love, with a shade of insanity. The sun was setting.

“People fall in love in mysterious ways. Maybe just the touch of a hand.” – Ed Sheeran


Instagram: @myspirals
Related post : Midnight.

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