A fleeting second on someone's news feed,
No dearth of meanings for those who read,
Not my stories but 'tis what I think,
I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.

You write poems with your fingertips
And I keep listening to the songs written on my skin
By some distant dream, similar words
But the verses never meet...

She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors,
A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm.
Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings,
A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.

Fictions are realities we don't think of, that are happening to people we know nothing about.

I've heard you say so many a time
That I know just the right words to say, just the right lines to rhyme...

Today it's been 7 years since we last met
I have learnt to say just the wrong words, just the lines you hate....

For grief has always been so dear to you that you would make me writhing in pain in the brothel of your imaginations than to be playing with a bunch of balloons in the yard where I should have been."
"And may be that's why, you'd rather talk to me about this, than to write a story about me where I could live happily.