i am a mosaic of all those i have loved and those who have loved me. i am a collection of features of my ancestors who have loved each other. i am born of love, loss, memories, and hatred. i am born of the history between nations, of strife and poverty, of happiness and prosperity.

i am a tapestry woven with threads of affection from those i’ve cherished and those who've cherished me. i bear the traits inherited from ancestors bound by love. my existence unfolds from the intricate dance of love, sorrow, memories, and disdain. i emerge from the tapestry entwined with tales of conflict, scarcity, joy, and abundance.

i am a melody composed of shared laughter and whispered confessions. each note echoes of familial bonds, connecting me to a lineage shaped by enduring love. my essence is etched with the brushstrokes of passion, pain, recollections, and the shadows of animosity.

in the grand symphony of existence, i am a product of the ebb and flow of human stories, a mosaic that mirrors the diverse hues of the human experience.

i am the echo of every beating heart.

i hope the stars know how lucky they are when you wish on them

in the orchard of our affection, where citrus essence lingers, i’d squeeze the sunsets into every drop of love for you

with each crimson droplet, a testament to the passion we share, painting our love story in shades of citrus and devotion

it’s not difficult to find the love that i have for you — i would peel oranges until my fingers bled

- based on a tweet by @sainticide

to find someone as you are is to travel amongst the stars, and i am but tethered to the earth

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and we’ll have a dog and a cat and a snake or a ferret in our lifetime, and i’ll plant flowers in the spring.

— bloom with me, and we’ll let our roots settle next to each other.

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my stars

my moon

my sun

my galaxy

i hear people praying to the universe as if she wasn’t standing right in front of me.

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when i die, i will soon become nothing but molecules, dispersed into the atmosphere.

even then, i hope that we meet again, and dance the dopamine waltz.

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when the lust leaves, and my skin dries

when i no longer have a will to live

then i’ll know,

i’m over you

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i think about you all the time

and i never want to see you again

i hope your dog’s leg got better

and we can never be friends

i have a folder of jokes only you would get

i hope it never sees the light of day

i see something you’d love every time i go thrifting

i look for a moment, set it down, walk away

i pray for your mom

i pray for your brother

i pray for the person you’ve become

and when i hand these prayers to the universe i say,

“make sure these get there safely, but please, don’t say who they’re from”

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i stared at you for so long on that bus. your eyes closed, your head tilted back in the seat as the setting sun dripped gold on your face. how foolish i must have looked, my gaze trapped on your features for the whole damn ride. i didn’t mean to make such a public announcement of my adoration.

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i miss the past but i don't belong in it anymore. my favorite food isn’t chicken biryani made by my mother’s hands anymore. the friends i was close to i no longer see. i can’t remember the specific intricacies of my favorite childhood tv show. the instances of life and death i wrote about in my diary don’t matter now. if i woke up tomorrow and i was 16 again like i always dream to be, i wouldn't know what to do. i wouldn’t be able to miss my far-gones.

i miss the past but i don’t belong in it anymore. the only thing i can do is move on.

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i know we’re strangers now

but i still use a cutting board instead of my hand,

just like you taught me

and i still get the spicy miso curry ramen at the place we had our first date,

but i can finish the whole bowl now

i can still hear my grandma’s voice telling me that a person doesn’t really die until they’re thought about for the last time

i still feel bad for making you cry in central park,

but i can still taste the salty kisses

i still worry about your mother

i still do my eyeliner the way i did when we went to the bronx zoo for the first time

i remember spending an hour sitting on the floor next to my mirror

i still wish you would learn how to drive,

maybe you did

i still hate that you were a better cook than me,

but i miss your cooking everyday

i know we’re strangers now

but if i ever think of you,

i’ll listen to simon & garfunkel,

just as a reminder

i know we’re strangers now

but if you die before i do,

i’ll keep you alive.

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you left the door cracked as if you might come back

i don’t know how to stop waiting for you

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body convulsions, out of control

my stomach clenched tight

white knuckles gripping the bowl

i shudder and wretch and feel it begin

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her eyes are molten, and they pin me where i stand

barely a breath away from her,

so close i could reach out a hand

lay it on her silky skin, as her eyes invite me to

but now her brows are drawn

and she's in a different mood

still, the hotness lingers there, in between our forms

but she looks at me with nothing

but an eyeful of her scorn

i cannot begin to unravel the workings of her mind

for she seems to quite hate me

but her body finds me divine

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and yet i will love and keep loving and then love some more

having so much love in your heart is beautiful and amazing right up until you’re alone in your bedroom clutching at your chest and whimpering like a wounded dog

In New York City, it’s always a rare blessing to see the sparkle of even a single star. It doesn’t get dark here. Even in the small hours of the morning, the sky remains illuminated by the thousands of blinking lights below—of the cars, of the buildings, of the houses. The lights reflect on the clouds, on the heavens themselves, turning them gray or an ugly muddy brown. There is no night in New York City, at least not in Manhattan. Queens can be different. On cold, moonless nights in Ozone Park, the stars come back to dance with me. At my bedside against the window, the stars twinkle and bathe me in a sleepy light. They’re pale and neutered, but I know they’re the same ones I see in my dreams. When I was younger, eight or nine, they visited me every night. When I lived in Punjab, in India, with my Nani and Nanu. When I had no worries. No cares. In the afternoons, I ran endlessly through the streets with my cousins, playing chicklets or pakdam pakdai. I never wanted to stop, so I didn’t. I ran and laughed and played. But when the light of the sun dimmed, we all collapsed in a pile in front of our house. Out came Bruno, a fuzzy black friend, to get his daily pats from the neighborhood kids. As we retired to the rooftop, we all laid in silence, altogether under the net of stars. Mendy and Boozi, our family dogs, whined softly, ready for bed. Our chests heaved, our hearts pounded, our feet ached, and our eyes grew tired. Cold breezes and hard concrete kept me always on my toes. Now though, it was worth it. My hands were a pillow behind my head and I watched the countless stars as they spread out in a never-ending array before me. The Milky Way was so radiant and bright, Hai Ram, it cast a shadow and my legs stretched ten feet. In these moments I was, without a doubt, the tallest girl in the world. With my head in the heavens, how could I not be? Drunk in starlight, I blink and I am back in the city. Years passed by; I find myself an adult, no longer a child. My head lies crooked on my windowsill once more. Tonight is one of those rare and lucky nights. I can see the sky from my bed. Three scattered stars blink back at me and this time the moon smiles at me too. They remember the moments we shared.

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