I left the book open last night,
the lamp gave up before I could write.
The page still waits there,
with my pen in the air;
some stories refuse to ignite.

- Neha Sharma

I bought some mangoes today,
one sweet, one sour in its way.
I ate them alone,
but somehow was shown,
your laughter still spills into May.

- Neha Sharma

The fan kept circling slow,
as if it had nowhere to go.
Round after round,
just carrying sound,
I think it knows something I don’t know.

- Neha Sharma

The lift doors closed on their own,
I stood there, quietly alone.
It rose, then came back,
its patience intact;
the kind I have never been shown.

- Neha Sharma

My mother stacked books till the ceiling grew tall,
a forest of paper that swallowed the wall.

Some conversed of kingdoms, some thundered of wars,
others spoke gently through half-hidden drawers.

Some stories were riddles, some heavy as stone,
some laughed with a child, some grieved all alone.

Hope didn’t live in fate or in chance,
but in books that awaited my curious glance.

No story was banished, no tale was denied,
I walked into pages the way rivers collide.

I never knew hunger, I never knew lack,
for stories would sprout like green blades at my back.

- Neha Sharma

I have been rewriting the dictionary in my quiet hours,
where words slip from their rags into brighter flowers.

The sad words that once wore coats of grey, 
now wear yellow scarves in a lighter way.

broken lets light slip by the cracks in its skin,
reminding us that beauty always glows from within.

betrayal still stings, is a mirror unkind,
but it forces you closer to truths you must find.

burden’s a stone that grows lighter when shared,
easier borne when more shoulders have cared.

defective is a record with scratches and skips,
but softly hums a tune on imperfect lips.

empty is a cup with a seat in the queue,
open and ready to be filled with something brand new.

failure, with soil sticking to its hands,
sows seeds that bloom only when time understands.

fear is a ladder that shakes, yet stays,
lifting you gently to braver days.

forgotten’s a book in the sun’s silent keep,
waiting for someone to wake it from sleep.

foolish is a child with too many whys,
sketching new worlds in the canvas of surprise.

guilt is a thread woven in the fabric of days,
pulling us back to amend and to rephrase.

heartbroken’s a heart that dared to bare,
a sign that it once opened and let someone there.

hopeless is the sky before one star is born,
dark only briefly, then pierced by the morn.

impossible sings like a dare in disguise,
a mischievous star winking low in the skies.

insignificant utters just a note, pure and small,
yet without it, the song would not matter at all.

lonely sets out a chair, steady and true,
saving a space till the right one finds you.

lost is no longer the end of the game,
just hiding in shadows till someone calls your name.

misfit belongs to another design,
a puzzle piece waiting for its picture to align.

regret is a tide that returns to the shore,
reminding us softly, “not this path once more.”

small is a pebble tossed into the stream,
sending out ripples much larger than dreamed.

stuck is the winter that quiets the land,
making more room for the spring to expand.

trapped is a caterpillar tucked out of sight,
holding its breath till it bursts into flight.

unhappiness comes like a storm in its prime,
but passes, leaving clear skies in time.

unlovable is a treasure buried in sand,
it waits for the seeker with a map in their hand.

worthless is gold in the dark kept away,
shining in silence till light finds its way.

The pages aren’t finished, not even half through,
some words are stubborn, still sulking in blue.

But as long as I live, as long as I roam,
I’ll keep reworking their meanings till I bring them all home.

- Neha Sharma

If you were a paper boat and I were too, 
we'd sail where the sky spills its silver hue.
Not knowing the shores that might come to greet, 
we’d let the wind choose which paths our bows meet.

Made from pages of different tales we’ve known, 
still stitched by the same soft wrinkle of home.
Your folds from a map that’s kissed by rain, 
mine from a letter still warm with a name.

Through puddle-lakes and ribbon streams, 
we'd paddle through the stitched-up seams.
Breathing in the wet earth’s sigh, 
and flowers whispering as we pass by.

If the water curved your edges thin, 
I’d smooth you back, draw your corners in.
And when my spine sagged from the weight I bore, 
you'd mend my hull till I sailed once more.

We’d dance where moonlight braids with the tide, 
and stars weave lanterns that the waters guide.
As fleeting as breath on a winter pane, 
yet steady as roots that no storm can strain.

They say, to send a paper boat adrift downstream 
is to send your hopes into someone’s dream.
Each ripple sketches the course we have crossed, 
each crinkle guards the treasures the waves once lost.

In the simple charm of paper and crease, 
we’d find the art of turning small things into peace.
For every journey, no matter how far, 
begins with two boats beneath the same star!

- Neha Sharma

There’s a room in my house that nobody visits.
Not even me.
It’s just there—quiet, undecorated, almost anonymous. 

But sometimes, passing by, I glance inside and see a chair perfectly 
at ease in its own company.

It sits the way some people do, after years of knowing themselves—arms loose, open, restful like turning away from noise. 

The ceiling fan hangs motionless.
Its blades stretched like quiet limbs, at peace in their respite.

‘We don’t need to spin to matter,’ it seems to whisper to the brass lamp below, who stands steady like a loyal soldier.

Its burgundy shade tilted at the precise angle of contemplation.
It’s not slouching, neither it is rigid.
But simply angled to cradle the soft spill of light.

A desk leans into the corner, legs uneven but unconcerned.
The drawers still stick on the left side, as if taking a breath to remember how they moved once.

On its surface, a closed notebook, an uncapped pen, a paperweight shaped like a cloud and a chipped mug with a faint ring of tea dried inside.
Beside it, a wooden ruler with faded numbers, a spool of thread, and a single key whose lock has long been forgotten.

The mirror, oval and old, tilts slightly upward, watching the light walk the ceiling through the day.
Letting light, not faces, be its memory.

A small shelf by the window sags gently in the middle, lined with three mismatched books, a tiny glass jar of marbles, and a clock that ticks only when it feels like it.

The linen curtains are faded and frayed.
They flutter with no urgency, dancing slowly, only when they want to.

On the floor, a woven basket rests in the corner, holding nothing but the smell of old wicker.

A calendar hangs on the wall, still open to last October.
No one flipped the page, and nothing fell apart, as though the months since never mattered.

And standing there, I realise, that not everything is waiting to be filled.
Some rooms already hold the light they were built for.

This room has made a home of its solitude. It gathers stillness like a well gathers rain. It holds it the way glass holds morning light.

It asks nothing of laughter or company, nor of the clatter that haste brings, yet it would welcome them like old friends.

Perhaps that is the art.
To be full in yourself, yet keep a chair pulled out for whoever wanders in.

- Neha Sharma

When light touches your skin, it is already eight minutes and twenty seconds old.
Which means, by the time you felt warm, the warmth had already begun its journey.

Because sunlight takes 8 minutes and 20 seconds to reach Earth, travelling at 300,000 km/second, crossing 150 million kilometres just to arrive quietly on your skin.

And you, call it a morning.

As if it hadn’t fought through voids, brushed past comets and silence, carried fire in its ribs just to land on the curve of your shoulder.

And I think that says something.
Maybe love is like that, too.
Already on its way.
Even if you don’t feel it yet.

So when the air around you feels hollow, when your name sounds like a question in your own head, when no one calls back, when your messages sit unread, it doesn’t mean love isn’t coming.

It might just be in transit.

Maybe it’s stopping somewhere to gather courage, or trying to read the map with shaky hands.

Because some things take time.

Even the sun, in its hushed faithfulness, must voyage through space before it reaches your windowpane.

Perhaps love isn’t late.
Maybe it’s just moving at the speed of something certain.

Maybe it’s a whisper leaving someone’s lips right now, that will echo in your name tomorrow.

Maybe it's footsteps turning the last corner, hands rehearsing what to say when they eventually see you.

Maybe love is already wrapping the gift, missing the train, catching the next one, running through the terminals of hesitation, with your name in its pocket and hope in its breath.

It might not arrive with fireworks or with orchestras.
It will simply stand at your doorstep, breathless and real.

And when it finally arrives.
When it lands gently on your side, when it presses its quiet forehead against yours.
You probably won’t ask why it took so long.

You’ll just say, “I always knew you were on your way.”

Because light always comes.
And love?
Love is light.

When it’s real, it takes its time. To cross the distance, to cross doubt.
But it shows up, where it was always meant to. Only because it refuses to get lost.

- Neha Sharma

Today, everything is brown.
The sky wears a coat of wet cardboard, creases folding softly into clouds.
Light filters through like old film; sepia, dust-kissed, like a memory sketched in condensation. 

The air smells like the earth after rain.
Not like the first splash, but the hush, the whisper of belonging between the soil and clouds.

The leaves? 
They no longer argue with the wind.
They curl up like pages half-read and left beside the bed.
You can almost hear them mumble old love poems to the pavement.

And the trees, they stand with their skin darkened, soaked in memory.
Patient listeners, who've spent the night collecting echoes from the wind,  storing them in rings, we'll never see. 

In the kitchen, tea sits still.
Draped in the colour of grandmother’s stories.
Steam rising slow, not eager to escape; like thoughts  that have nowhere else to be.

There’s a bowl of walnuts, little brown brains hiding secrets; dreaming of those high branches, they’ll never climb again.

A cinnamon stick leans in the corner jar, cracked but fragrant.
Its bark split like an old book's spine opened too often by hands reaching for comfort.

There’s a leather jacket slouched over a chair.
The kind that remembers every shoulder it held.
Its arms droop like tired hugs, and its pockets still hold ticket stubs from movies seen in another life. 

Time moves slowly today.
Like coffee cooling in a chipped mug, like rainwater running over a mud path, not rushing anywhere.
Just carving quiet paths, no one notices.

Some memories come in shades of brown.
Not black, not white, just right there.

Today is not grey.
It does not twinge like blue or sting like red.

It is brown.
And brown lingers.
It tiptoes through a house, settling in corners,  content to stay unseen and at the same time never truly gone. 

- Neha Sharma