Rustic Moments, Brown and Kind (free verse)

 

These are the quiet comforts

random, rustic, brown,

like warm wood floors

and twilight tea,

the kind that settle softly in the soul.

Moments of stillness,

sitting and wondering

what if I had turned left,

chose differently,

would life have been lighter?

A strange breakfast,

jam and cream on paratha,

makes peace with the choices

I carry like stones.

Books, found randomly,

wrapped in the smell of chocolate

stirs something old and soft,

a sepia-tinted joy

I thought I lost.

A cookie shake,

sweet as a secret,

melts the weight of days

into nothingness

just sweetness,

then silence.

A spontaneous plan

with someone I love

erases the taste

of all the sour yesterdays.

A difficult drama on screen

pulls me out of my own

its fiction,

a balm for real-life bruises.

And the fairy lights

tiny suns in jars

each one a quiet blessing

sparked by the very choices

I doubted most.

Patterns of Passing

I'm slowly learning to let go—like leaves falling one by one, gently loosening their grip, preparing the tree for the final farewell. Each leaf carries a realization, heavy and tight, enough to feel like it might strangle me. But I keep breathing, deep and steady, as if that rhythm alone can carry me forward.

There’s a quiet ache in this kind of surrender—something that doesn't scream, but sits beneath the surface like still water hiding a current. I move through my days almost silently, brushing against memories like wind against branches, knowing they’ll eventually break away too.

And then I find myself watching—patterns, petals, pavements, particles, paper, paintings, and something like peace. I wonder whether I should let myself care about any of it… enough to inhale deeply and risk choking on the weight of being alive. Because some days, even beauty feels like a burden—too delicate to hold, too fleeting to trust.

I stand still in rooms filled with noise and movement, yet feel as if I'm made of glass—visible, fragile, unnoticed. I smile at conversations that skim the surface, but my mind drifts elsewhere, to places quiet and aching, where I can listen to the sound of letting go. It’s not loud—it’s the sound of footsteps fading, pages closing, familiar scents disappearing with the wind. Maybe that’s the curse of becoming aware: you see endings in beginnings, cracks in comfort, the fall in every rise.

Knowing not everything broken needs mending—some things just need space to exist, to ache, to soften over time. I'm not searching for answers anymore. I think I’m learning to live inside the questions—to let them stretch around me like a sky I don’t need to map. 

Not clarity, but calm. 

Not erasure, but coexistence.

So I watch the leaves fall. I let them. I let myself.

~Aizah

Home is where the termites dwell

 "Talking to the water, my bow tilts slightly, as if agreeing, while the water calms itself to listen." That’s what I wanted to say when they asked for my opinion during dinner. Instead, I heard myself lie, "The food’s great," as something lodged in my throat. A feeling I knew would pass with a sip of water.

But all I longed for was to retreat to the solace of my own company, where words flow freely and the world leans in, understanding. Where the wind arrives with a quiet intimacy, brushing past me like a fleeting embrace, tilting my bow just enough to remind me I’m heard. Where sunlight lingers delicately, never too bold to shatter the fragile veneer of my blues, as though it knows too much brightness might erase me altogether.

Now we’re splitting the bill, exchanging goodbyes, and I find my face breaking into a smile. I’m going back home, a place where the silence is eerie, the unpredictability oddly comforting. Like termites, whose presence reveals itself only after the damage is done. Perhaps I’ve grown fond of this ruin, this quiet unpredictability, where self-acknowledgment feels unnecessary and I’m invisible enough to let the dents in life settle around me like an ill-fitting jacket. 

They look wonderful, don’t they?” Father had once said, gazing at the cracks, dents, and holes in his house. “Yes, they do,” I remember replying. But I didn’t tell him the rest, that clusters of vibrant souls had felt trapped here staying willingly until they became those cracks, dents, and holes.

Firefly's Tear

 

In the tender night's caress, a lune firefly shimmered, its soft glow a delicate dance in the dark. It lingered by a house, a cherished haven it had grown to adore. Once, the walls echoed with admiration for the firefly's grace.

    As the night unveiled its mysteries, a robust wind swept through. Unyielding, the firefly endured, yet a subtle shift occurred. The house, once enamored by its glow, now adorned itself with artificial radiance, leaving the firefly cloaked in shadows.

    The storm that ensued wasn't of tempests but of emotions, crushing the firefly's spirit. A tear welled within, aglow with the same light that once painted the night. Unnoticed by the world, it continued to gleam outside the house, despite the dark shroud veiling its soul.

    The irony lay in the tear, seen only by the firefly itself. Whether it radiated its brightest or bore the burden of darkness throughout the day, the tear remained a secret to the world.

    While the house reveled in newfound brilliance, the firefly flickered in silent lament- a poignant metaphor replaced in night's glow.

-Aizah

Whispers of Intuition: A Journey Through Weariness and Renewal

 It's peculiar. The possession of a keen intuition is undeniably a boon, one I've consistently cherished. However, there are instances when I fervently wish it would simply dissipate. I find myself preemptively sensing events that will disturb my equilibrium, leading to protracted periods of discontent.For instance,the arduous journey of overcoming a trust breach this time spanned nearly five months, leaving me thoroughly fatigued.

 She gazed at him with eyes so intent that they seemed to implore him for an elixir capable of inducing a prolonged slumber.

 Brian couldn't refrain from inquiring,"To what extent does this weariness extend?"

 "Exhausted to the point where conversation holds no appeal anymore," she replied promptly,a lucid awareness accompanying her words.

 It deeply disheartened Brian to witness a friend, typically an open book, in such a despondent state. Failing to conceive an alternative, he proposed,"How about we depart? You can persist in your duties, as your aversion to abandoning responsibilities is evident, even if certain aspects of your work prove disagreeable. Let your work and commitments remain here, and you, in turn, depart."

 Without a moment's hesitation, she nodded, as though a gentle nudge sufficed to fortify her preconceived resolution.She departed promptly, propelled by the determination already crystallized within her.