Noctis Verses

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


Let’s write


Park benches never felt emptier than on festival days — while people swarmed around, huddled with friends, family or their loved ones; you sat alone watching them pass by — and perhaps, in that moment you realise how alone you are, however much people say you have friends or that you have them, you’d never be the first choice.

Unless you’re the one making the plan you’d not be included, you’d be the one walking behind the group in a pavement not wide enough — and all those social media posts about being “that friend” suddenly made more sense than before, because you’re not supposed to be feeling this way — others would be hurt!

Here’s to empty benches, festivity and the naked terror called loneliness.



“I’m lonely. And I’m lonely in some horribly deep way and for a flash of an instant, I can see just how lonely, and how deep this feeling runs. And it scares the shit out of me to be this lonely because it seems catastrophic.”

—Augusten Burroughs

I feel certain it’s me, with nothing to latch onto. While there’s just that one hand – but, still there’s nothing to latch onto, I wouldn’t want to be a parasite to this hand. The world that I survive in is cold, and cuts into me; then dresses the wound and tears it open, again and again and again. 

It’s not even the conventional word, but a naked terror. 

I’d often feel the stinging stab of loneliness. The water I drink, the food I nibble – they’d feel like needles pinching me, more often than not – even the pages of a book I was reading would threateningly gleam like razor blades. 

“… there’s a difference between having no one because you’ve chosen it and having no one because everyone has been taken away.”

― Helen Oyeyemi, Mr. Fox

While I’d agree that often this solitude, being alone did indeed feel good; but, it never felt right. While I am learning my way around it and mapping it, it feels like a human experience – where we realize others aren’t our scratching posts for us, nor do they owe us their company or themselves. 

“God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of “parties” with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter – they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship – but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

This feeling runs deep and is rather scary, almost catastrophic! It’d seem I am lonely in some horrible way. While a fire burns me, all people see in a wisp of smoke!  There’s a loneliness that one can see between the hands of the clock as they move. 

It’s a helpless feeling, to feel this way. 


The anticipation of the silent hum of the carriage approaching the platform with its steam bellowing ever so scenically – reminded of the scottish highlands with the winter mist fogged around the greens.

But, this carriage of bogeys was special – it was bringing me home and I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle to myself and beam a smug smile.

I found myself thinking between the seconds “Was he my home? Then would it be my homecoming?” Perhaps, it was in those moment where I agreed with myself – he was home, and these carriages brought me home, and all I could do was blush a deep crimson red at this thought, with face flushed I stood there – waiting.

Yearn (?)

I missed him, and each breath felt heavier as it heaved out.

I missed him, like an addict missed his dose of nicotine, withdrawal symptoms were almost settling in — my lips traced candied bacon and rose petals looking for his lips, I was itching to borrow him and not let him go.

Bury my face into his nape and leave traces of what was mine, and lipstick marks on his collar too! I could almost smell him — I was daydreaming about my man, what a wonderful way to make one’s procrastination productive!

I was sitting like a recovering alcoholic, wanting my peg measure of him, and only him. Humans, often are more prone to being addicted to another than to sin, here was I — with my dress wet from anticipation of him and only him; my substance of abuse was the boy whose smile melted my and his eyes were my favourite colour!

Why couldn’t Monday come any sooner?

With fingers looking for his hair, lips searching for their candy of choice, eyes darting for him in person and not in a screen, arms empty and cold — him, I was desperate for my him.

Dearest, of you’re done with being tease — come along, I am drenched physically and metaphorically, itching to feel your skin against mine and wanting to whisper my bittersweet love, my craving for you and laugh into you while we kiss.

I miss him, unashamedly. With each moment becoming heavier without him


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?

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑