Noctis Verses

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


Let’s write


How’d you stitch a heart that you helped tear and stab, break into pieces; all while you were supposed to help him collect the pieces strewn across.

It’s like a pit in your stomach, you hurt the one person you promised yourself you wouldn’t, one person that’s your world, one person that’s your favourite! Yet, here you sit, cradling their heart in a crib and feeding it honeycomb cookies trying to not hurt them more – perhaps, that’s where you went wrong? You fed them cookies while all they wanted was to feed on you?

How would you explain to him that they are all that matter to you? They are all they’d wished for? They are the reason you’d dare to fall in love again? They are the reason you smile.

If in the process of loving them, you’d make them feel they weren’t enough for you — were you loving them right, loving them enough? Even though when you said they were more than just enough, it were just words to them, your actions weren’t convincing enough?

This would perhaps be the time to buckle up, and love him like there’s no tomorrow and no one but him.

Spoil them enough with your love that’d it won’t happen again, that they’d not have to cry themselves to sleep because they aren’t enough for you, they won’t have to turn their face away — that you’d be incomplete and hiding if not for them

This one’s not an apology, it is someone who’s realising she should have fed her lover with love and not honeycomb cookies, and telling him she’s craving him in all ways one can — she’s regretting things not done and said, things she did do and say. It’s her wishing for him, it’s her wanting him, it’s her needing him. It’s her, telling him she didn’t intend to pierce his heart with a knife — it’s her, telling him, “I know I fucked up — but, it won’t happen again and I’d love you more than I have, you’ll see it’s changed for the better not the worse it’d seems like”.

Perhaps, acting on words would tell how does one patch up a heart they broke and tore when they should have been helping gather the strewn pieces.

This one’s for the boy whose making me want him in ways I wouldn’t want anyone else, want him and only him; for the boy from the coffee shop, the one with his warmth and wicked smile.


Longing (?)

It’s going to be a long week, being away from him. Ever since, we’ve been together — it’s always a task to not be with him and not have him snuggle into me.

And here we are almost a month later, being away for a week long vacation (much needed too) but, away from each other for a while nonetheless.

It’s been just a day — yet here I am munching on his favourite biscuits, and scrolling through my gallery looking at his lovely face. Even the coffee back home isn’t cutting his absence — I think I am terrible at missing him.

Even though last morning was rather unfavorable in nature, perhaps in a way it’d be my fault too — the way he felt he shouldn’t have had, because it did it wasn’t right, I should know better than to make my favourite feel anything like he did. (All I can do is to make my actions speak for the verbal — and do it without the analogies, too)

Even after the long month that this is coming along to be — it’s longer even more so without him besides me!

A lot has changed over the last few months, as did the dynamics — perhaps, more has derailed than stayed on rails and progress on the positive; it’d be high time to get my hands dirty and put the rails back in place, time to get to work.

Before I do, this one’s for the sun that shines ever so hazily on my otherwise dark porch; for the one whose farther away, but closest to the instrument that keeps the pulses beating

Gosh, can this week end any sooner? I miss him, and it feels empty without him around.

Eerily romantic

He stood there, frozen under the midsummer sun – a subtle curve enveloping his face as his eyes crinkled towards his hairline. 

Meanwhile, I was just sitting there fascinated by his smile as it slowly creeped up on his face — sending shivers down my spine;

I felt attacked, not by him — but for who he was, for whom I was willing to go to lengths I wouldn’t normally even think about; here I was — eerily enough ready to cross them for this one person. I was doing this out of pure love too, without a motive, all to see his wickedness time and again.

I am sitting here, watching him smile into the sun — I feel lucky? Perhaps I’ll go to the church over the weekend and pray; but at this moment I miss him, and I realise why am I head over heels over him, just him; has to be him.

This one’s for the one being kissed by the midsummer sun

Sunkissed (!!)

I have been in a constant state of being kissed by my sun for a while now; my sun seems to be rising with a steady just like my smile — that’s ever so slowly hitting the eyes.

I am falling in love with a person I call mine, as does he. And besides every fall doesn’t have to end up with burnt cigarettes and bleeding wrists. I am sure this one wouldn’t. It’d seen he’s all I have wanted for the longest time. If anything, I think it’d be an honour to my have my heart broken by him!

The girl who stood by the dresser, in the dark unsure of what to wear; the girl who couldn’t smile, the girl perpetually sad — now wouldn’t stop smiling and being jumpy and feeling a subtle everglow of the warmth of yellow.

Yet, even though you could see the sublime glimmer in his eyes — he was still scared, I was still the Icarus to his sun!

This boy has my heart and puts me at ease, I couldn’t imagine anything that doesn’t have him in the equation — he’s the “1” in my “1+1=2”; perhaps, eventually he’d be able to calm the storms in his heart and love as vividly as he is, I’ll wait till he’s there — it’s something I look forward, the wickedness fading ever so slow; as I lean into his warmth and be there for a very long time.

This one’s for you my boy, smile — it’s you and me, not a me and a you. Thank you my sun, thank you.

Waiting for you, at the Fin.

Broken = Cool?

Why do we try to portray this obvious brokenness of ours as something beautiful? Why the nagging need to glorify and try to convince ourselves it’s alright to be this way?

Frankly, it’s not. It’s not hipster or cool to know that we are part of a generation that is broken and goes to bed crying into our pillows! Being distraught, not being able to sleep or having insecurities isn’t “cool”, childhood trauma not letting us indulge ourselves isn’t right. Abuse isn’t the new cool!

We need to stop, take a step back and breath, realise that hustle is alright, losing our humanity in the process is not.

Why does being called a generation that is broken a badge of honour? When did being broken become alright? I often wonder where did our innocence slip away, when did fake smile become a regular occurrence, when did being scared be alright, when did being depressed become cool?

When did glorification of mental illness and the obvious brokenness of modernity become a statement?


Often the noise in my head becomes louder than the one blaring through the speakers

In those instances we reach out, for someone something not there and slump back against the wall and stare at our tear stained palms — sweating blue. The fact that you realise that at the end of the day it’s each man for himself dawns on us, the fact that you too are alone scares you, even your solitude seeking self don’t want this — perhaps at the end of day we all want someone we can lean on to.

Perhaps, even in our weakness we want this one person who would show us all that we are, all that we can be, all that we possibly can be. We want them to show us the light we think we don’t have, hold our shaking hands and calm them; tell us they are here and we are loved.

When we lean on them, we don’t do it out of weakness but from strength we choose to be vulnerable with them because of who are, because we hand them ourselves and trust them to not crush us into into pieces and scatter them for a dime a piece under the streetlight.

Often, at our lowest we look for a north star we can lean on, we look for a footing in the otherwise falling pieces of us — someone to anchor us when it gets rough, someone to say ‘Don’t worry I am here, it’s going to be over soon’

Someone to lower the volume in the speakers, and inside our head.

Embrace us when we reach out,
calm our storms when we can’t,
be there when no one else is.

Hold them

It’s been a while

Well, depression and the fear that whatever you’re going to pen isn’t worth a dime isn’t all that of a combination. You know when people say ‘sadness reeks creativity‘ they often forget to mention that the people who write as a result of this so called sadness are also the clinically depressed ones, the ones we need to look out for, the ones we should check up on and not brush them off, not value them for their words or the sentences they form.

“Its so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself. That’s above and beyond everything else, and it’s not a mental complaint-it’s a physical thing, like it’s physically hard to open your mouth and make the words come out. They don’t come out smooth and in conjunction with your brain the way normal people’s words do; they come out in chunks as if from a crushed-ice dispenser; you stumble on them as they gather behind your lower lip. So you just keep quiet.

Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story”

So, when you see a person whose clinically depressed and sad — and tells you sadness reeks creativity, don’t believe them. Hold them close and console their soul that’s it’s all going to be alright, that you’re there, that they are loved. They might not believe you, but that’s what they need hear — to be told told they matter, to be told not everything their head tells them is to be believed, to be told out there in the storm they aren’t alone.

Stay and love them for the mess they are, love them for what they are, not their words and sentences but for the person they are. Stay, while they build themselves — it’s not easy.


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?


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