These days my nights feel colder,

Empty rooms and shoulders bolder

Words we used to speak so soft now fade

Echoes in my soul that never stay.

Even the melody feels incomplete

Lost in a silence I can’t defeat

Shadows of us linger in my mind

Trying to chase the memory I left behind.

Where’d you go, when the night gets low?

I need your voice, let your love flow

Hold me close through every word

Bring me back, let my heart be heard

Like a record scratched,

I’m spinning.

Time slips past without you in it.

Reaching out through empty air,

Wishing you’d find me waiting there.

Slide back in, I’ll open wide

No more secrets that we hide

Breathing in the space you leave

Learning how again to believe.

Where’d you go, when the night gets low?

I need your voice, let your love flow

Hold me close through every word

Bring me back, let my heart be heard

Bring me back, let my heart be heard.

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Backstory: Unheard Echoes

This poem came from the space between silence and longing. I wrote Unheard Echoes on one of those nights where your bed feels too big, the air too still, and the only thing louder than the quiet is memory.

It wasn’t about one person. It was about the feeling of them, their voice, their warmth, the rhythm they brought into your world. And how all of that can vanish, leaving you chasing ghosts in your own head.

I’d been thinking about what it means to miss someone, not just in moments of nostalgia, but in the mundane, like reaching for a song you both loved and realising it now carries more ache than melody.

It’s that liminal space:

• After connection, before closure.

• Where you almost move on, but something holds you.

It’s a plea, really.
To be found again.
To be heard.
To not have your heart echo back at you with nothing but silence.

That’s where this poem was born.
From the stillness that used to be shared.

And now?
It’s just unheard echoes.

Backstory: Between Beats

I wrote this poem during a rest period between sets at the gym. I had just finished a heavy set of shoulder presses. Sixty seconds before the next one.

In that pause, you reflect on what just happened. You steady your breath. You prepare for what’s next. There’s purpose in the pause, because you know what’s coming.

But my mind wandered, what if there was no next set?

What if life just stayed in that limbo? Moving, yes. But not really going anywhere. Like muscle memory taking over. Like a body that knows the motions, even when the mind has checked out.

From the outside, you look sharp. Functional. Focused.
But inside, it’s just noise. A routine on autopilot.

You can coast through life the same way you coast through workouts, precise, performed, practiced, yet purposeless.

Between Beats is about that space.
Where you look like you’re in motion, but you’re standing still.
Where you wait for the next beat to come.
The one that makes it all feel like it means something again.

Backstory: Loneliness

I wrote this poem, Loneliness, a few days ago. It is something I've grappled with for as long as I can remember. Most times, it’s quiet. So quiet, you don’t even know it’s there until it’s everywhere.

For me, it didn’t come as heartbreak or a breakup. It came in slow moments—missed calls, paused conversations, a growing sense that I was speaking but not really being heard. I was surrounded by people, yet somehow, alone.

It wasn’t isolation. It was invisibility.

It started in my head—a thought, then another, pulling me inward. Before I knew it, I was slipping into silence, into distance, into the comfort of my own echo. It felt safer not to reach out than to feel ignored. That’s the trick of loneliness—it pretends to protect you while it slowly pulls you apart.

This poem is about that.

About how loneliness builds—not in one moment, but in a thousand tiny ones. And how by the time you notice it, you’ve already stopped noticing everything else.

A dear friend of mine witnessed something visceral and raw the other day. This poem is dedicated to her, hoping these words brings some relief.

Loneliness is a disease; it is not a state of mind. It has the potential to kill you if left untreated.

Backstory: Two Versions of Me

I grew up in a house full of women.

A mother who carried more weight than she should have.
A grandmother who spoke in sighs more than words.
Aunts and sisters who filled every space, yet somehow had none of their own.

Men made the decisions.
Women made the tea.

It was an unspoken rule in our small town of Aluva, Kerala—the kitchen was theirs, the table was not. They were always on call, always present, yet invisible when it mattered. Alive, but not truly living.

I was two people at once.

One version of me saw their pain, felt the injustice in the way their lives were shaped by decisions they never made.
The other basked in privilege, the quiet understanding that being a man in the family meant I could step into spaces they never could.

And that contradiction shaped me.

We have come a long way since then. But some days, I wonder—have we come far enough? Because even now, in boardrooms, in families, in societies that claim progress, the kitchen door is still open, and the table is still full of men.

That is why I wrote this.
Because Women’s Day should not be a day.
It should be a reckoning.

Backstory: The Making of a Mother

Motherhood isn’t just birth—it’s becoming.

A woman does not simply wake up as a mother. She is forged. In pain, in sacrifice, in moments of quiet strength no one sees. Blood and love spill in equal measure—one giving life, the other binding it forever.

And when death comes, it does not sever. A mother’s love isn’t bound by breath—it lingers, it remains, it pulls at the fabric of existence itself.

Because to be a mother is not just to give life. It is to be life.

Backstory: Deceit

Deception never comes with a warning. It arrives softly, wrapped in the kind of words that feel safe, the kind of touch that reassures. You listen. You trust. You step closer.

And before you know it, you’re caught.

The lies weren’t obvious at first—they were spun carefully, deliberately, meant to hold, not to break. You tried to believe. You wanted to believe. But lies don’t just exist in words—they seep into the spaces where truth should have been, twisting everything you thought was real.

By the time you realize, the damage is done.

Now, you stand in the wreckage, looking at the web that once shimmered like silk, seeing it for what it truly is—fragile, false, already breaking.

And maybe, so are you. But at least now, you see.

Backstory: The Weight of What’s Left Behind

Some people don’t leave all at once.

They linger—in the spaces between thoughts, in the ghost of their touch, in the way silence hums their name when no one is speaking.

You tell yourself the world is vast, that there’s more to see, more to hold, more to chase. But in the quiet moments, when everything slows, it shrinks to just one thing. Them.

A kiss too brief, too careful—like they were rationing affection. Like love was something to be saved, not spent.

And now, all you’re left with is that feeling—the absence that never truly leaves.

Backstory: When the Game Stops Playing You

Every day, we wake up and life tosses the coin for us. Our job is to catch the coin and play along.

We tell ourselves the odds are in our favor—that we’ll outrun the averages, outplay the game. Some of us get lucky. Some of us build streaks so long, we start believing luck had nothing to do with it.

Until one day, the hand that tosses the coin… goes still.

This is for the ones who never got to call heads or tails. For the ones we lost to the toss of life.

Some bets, we never get to make.

Backstory: In Motion

There’s a strange feeling that comes with living between two places—two worlds that claim you, yet neither fully yours.

You leave, only to return. You return, only to leave again.

At first, you think you’ve arrived. The familiar streets, the laughter of old friends, the weight of memories settling on your skin like dust. For a while, it feels like home. But then, something shifts—a pull, a restlessness, a voice whispering that you don’t quite belong.

So you leave again, chasing the comfort of the other home, the one you built, the one that still feels unfinished. And when you get there, the cycle begins again.

Maybe home isn’t a place. Maybe it’s motion. Maybe you were never meant to arrive at all.

Backstory: The Crime of Wanting

Imagine this—

You know you shouldn’t. You tell yourself you won’t. But the space between you and them is too much, too loud, pressing against your ribs like something alive.

A glance lingers a second too long. A breath held a little too deep. The kind of silence that crackles, waiting to break.

You tell yourself you have control. That you can stand still. But your hands twitch at your sides, guilty before they even move. Because deep down, you know—

A touch is all it takes.

And if the punishment is being locked in their arms, if the sentence is never leaving—
then tell me, wouldn’t you commit the crime?

Some crimes are worth it.