She never left; I just stopped looking

a morsel poem

every evening, under the wooden stairwell
i hear my name
a little bit smudged, like watercolor left in rain

it drifts up from the cracks in the floorboards,
i once hid candy wrappers there
and the cherry pit i swore would grow into a tree.

it’s a voice
mine, but smaller.
sticky hands. wobbly teeth.
laughter that doesn’t care who hears it.

i sit on the last step,
knees tucked to chest,
and let the memory crawl into my lap.

she doesn’t say much. just hums the tune
we used to hum while brushing dolls’ hair
and watching the sun blink through curtain lace.

i want to tell her
we still love tomatoes with salt.
we still cry watching Chennai Express.
we made it, mostly.

but she’s already gone,
running barefoot into some distant summer

leaving behind
only the smell of crayons
and the thud of skipping feet.

---

snack

behind the poem

this one came to me while i was sitting on the kitchen floor, absolutely exhausted, too hungry to think. i had deleted all the food delivery apps last week in a rare moment of discipline, so ordering in was not an option. i stared into the fridge like it was a portal to another dimension. guess what was waiting for me? tomatoes. lots of them. i sliced one, added salt, and sat there eating it. a gourmet meal.

and that’s where this poem came from.

---

what snack pulls you straight back to childhood?

I love you
See you next Wednesday!

Sinking & Rising

Soulmates don't always mean lovers

Between heaven & earth

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