Noctis Verses

“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.” ― Saul Bellow


Let’s write


I had to put on my shades!

His wickedness was rather bright, and had a gentle warmth — perhaps, Van Gogh was looking for this pleasant happiness when he gulped the yellow all those years ago

The winds were warmer than usual, perhaps it was the weather romanticising with the blush — or would it be that the boy had walked in through the doors just as the sun rose and lit the room in an affable orange!

Oh my, I could hear my heart pulse faster by the hour — his gentle wickedness was almost addictive, yet that was all I was yearning for lately.

Doomed, wasn’t I?


Dear diary,

It’s past midnight again — and I can’t not think about him. The gentle warmth of his wickedness, oh my even the sun couldn’t hold a candle to him.

Often, I’d wonder how lucky I got when the sun walked in. There was this charm about him, this homely air to his wickedness — it made you feel like you’d just had a pot full of yellow!

Diary, you know lately coffee seems to have lost its charm, without him around it doesn’t seem right, perhaps I could say his company made it all the much better? And now with him not there the brew wasn’t the same!

Sad. My coffee intake seems to have taken a hit too — ouch! This boy, oh dear me.

Perhaps, I should try to catch up with sleep, haven’t seen her in a while! We’ll get to this later, eh?



Dear brother,

It’s been 6 years since you’ve been gone, I hope you’re doing well and are in a better place.

We all miss you, it’s been fragmented with you in the picture, a lot has changed since then — you’d be pleasantly surprised I suppose. A few of us haven’t really come to terms with your lack of presence; the little one doesn’t even know who I am referring to when I say your name — you’re slipping away brother.

I know you had to do what you had to, still it’s been hard without you around.
I waited days at end thinking it was all a suck joke, guess it’s been 6 years too long eh?

The oddities in your box miss you, as do Alhambra and Viper. So do I and the others — you’re not coming back it’d seem, sadly.

I hope you’re smiling finally, not the one you’d flash always, a genuine one this time.

Life’s been hard for you — I guess ever since you’ve gone it’s been hard for me, too.

Yet here we are 6 years later, counting days as they pass by — and waiting for a phone call that’d not ring.

Hope you’ve found your great perhaps brother dearest
In your loving memory, with love unaccounted for and an always.


Dear diary,

It’s 3 in the morning I am sitting here with the warm chill hitting my back — there’s a subtle hint of romanticism here, won’t you agree? A nostalgia — I can’t put my finger around, perhaps it was the smile — gotten me hooked.

I was scrolling through his social media a while back, and couldn’t help but let out an ear to ear with the my cheeks flushing a deep rose!

With Sinatra blaring in my ears, my coffee turning cold and a warm chill running down my spine — makes me feel like I am in a romantic fiction waiting for him to whisper his love for me under the midnight sun!

I can’t sleep, and he’s there with his coy smile annoying me and not letting me sleep, and how can I — with all this blood rushed upto my cheeks, it’s hardly surprising, gosh such a bother.

Guess, I should give my blanket another chance. Happy snuggling to me!


With the Backstreet Boys blaring in the background, he sat there collecting his tears on an empty phone screen — as he mumbled himself asleep with the sun digging deeper into the evening, a thought was stuck there — did people really want him? Or they just humoured him, humoured him because they hadn’t used him yet, and were waiting to use him and discard him — show him where he belonged: down in the dumps crawling with the vermins

As the moon started to peek from behind the concrete — he wiped his screen, gulped his coffee (which had become cold over the last hour) pushed the thoughts aside (One could try)

He sat down and started to romanticise his sadness, like it was an old love interest.

Miss(ed) chuckle

She was missing his smile — even though it’d been just two weeks, seemed like forever to her

She sat staring at a screen till the wee hours of the morning and then again repeat the cycle on a loop — just so she wouldn’t have to miss his name flashing on her screen!

Obsession, borderline perhaps. She wouldn’t fall for him, would she? It was normal wasn’t it — to wait for someone’s message if you missed them? This wasn’t love, she was sure it wasn’t (while she nonchalantly scrolled his pictures on social media)

He made her heart jet lag, but she wasn’t in love — no, how could she be — she just missed his wicked smile (a little too much, lately too) but missing someone a bit too much than usual wasn’t love, she was sure it wasn’t — yet here she was, letting a smug chuckle out at the mere thought of him

Serenade: Unrequited

He missed the fresh romanticism of the crisp mountain air, and the smog of the city wasn’t helping

There was this itch, like the hills were calling him back ‘home’ — here he was, cuddled up and staring into the screen writing about them

While the vinyl hummed in the background and his mind hummed about the hills — his heart strung a different hum, one of an unrequited serenade — an incomplete one waiting for the streetcar down the road to start and embrace it

Perhaps it was a longing for someone miles away that was the reason for the serenade, was it better to take his strings and sing a ballad under her window? Than to stare at his screen and type it out, and perhaps he should carry a bouquet too, of roses — afterall that’s what romantics do. Sing a ballad and give the woman they fancy a rose bouquet (or two)

While the hums went around room, and romanticism was the common denominator — he couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, unrequited.

Cliché (?)

He sighed ever so deep, mountains have always had this nostalgic romanticism about them — here he was sitting on the roadside writing a postcard at 7 in the morning with the sun hitting his back, all he needed was someone to address the postcard too and it’d fit the romantic cliché!

Shifting his gaze back to the postcard and the serene view, there was a nostalgic longing for someone, something — a craving for this one thing and he couldn’t place a finger on it, but somewhere he was sure it had to be her, the one he’d given a rose too.

He could almost feel her tracing her fingers through his hair, smiling as she messed it up — why’d this make him break into a snicker?

As the sun climbed, he climbed down from the hood and stuffed the postcard in the glovebox, hid his blush and breath in deep — it was time to continue on his walk down the valley and take in the calm and romanticism of the hills


He sat at the pier — watching the first boat go, then a second, a third until the pier was empty and he was the only one in a mile round radius, slowly got up — dusted himself and sparked his cigarette, puffed it slow as he made his way to the benches

He could now cry, in peace too — he missed her, missed her hard. Even though he had the sun on his back it wasn’t the same as when she’d run her hand across his back, trying to calm the anxiety down or asking how he was doing; she’d slipped past his fingers and it hadn’t even been a week — yet here he was — with a sin he’d thought he left, a person who isn’t here, a nagging thought knocking incessantly on the back of his, his melancholy and tears; here he was in their favourite place without the one who made him fall in love with piers and dockyards.

With the sun above his head and the ships coming back, and the tourists coming in; it wasn’t just him anymore — stubbed his last cigarette – pulled his hood, wiped his face and walked away towards the concrete with a drooped smile, and melancholy smiling while it walked besides him

Blog at

Up ↑