Noctis Verses

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


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.



“Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.” 

― Marthe Troly-Curtin, Phrynette Married

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.

Can I?

“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

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

Waiting (?)

I think a boy like him is worth waiting for

Very few people have had the ‘ability’ to break me into a genuine smile — perhaps this is what made him worth the wait

Perhaps, I should get a picture of his wicked smile and keep it pinned to my wallet; just like the old times — open and adore it whenever he crossed my mind (Wait no, that’s a lot of staring into an empty wallet)

Yet, here I am staring at his smile on my phone screen and waiting for his name to pop up on the notification bar

I think, he would be worth waiting for


It was slow night,
The moon seemed to blush
And the stars shone brighter

Fell in love with brown, too

He’d need her,
He was falling —
Wished the chance hadn’t passed

Daydreamt about a smile, too

With amber approaching
With a beautiful girl beside —
He wished it won’t end

It was her, wasn’t it?

And romanticism —
Butterflies in his stomach

Melting into a subtle blush

Recalling the slow night
Waiting for the chance
With the moon blushing behind the stars

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