If love had a voice, it would sound like her. Like the first spoonful of warm soup when my throat aches, like my name said softly after a day that broke me… just a little too much.
She is the ocean I learned to float in, the lighthouse I looked for when storms taught me how dark the world can get. She is the reason I believe that kindness is still a currency worth spending freely.
She is the quiet miracle who gave me everything, before I even knew how to ask!
She is the poet. And I? I am her poem, still learning to carry her rhythm in my bones.
When the world tried to turn us cold, she stayed soft. And that softness… God! that softness was never weakness. It was an armour. Armour made of soft hands that held back hurricanes.
Her eyes have always searched for beauty in the smallest things. But for me? She is the most beautiful thing in every room she walks into.
She is the strength in my knees when the world shakes. The pillar that held every version of me until I could stand on my own.
She is my anchor, my horizon, my first home. The reason the world doesn’t feel entirely unkind.
I don’t say it enough. But I love her. In every way I know how; in the choices I make, in the patience I try to carry, in all the ways I remember everything she taught me without even realizing.
Her name is the softest and the only prayer that I know. A quiet kind of magic that wraps around my soul and whispers, “You’re okay. You’ve always been okay!”
If love had a voice, it would sound like her. And it would be the most beautiful thing this world has ever heard.
If the universe asks me to explain love, I will hand it your name. I’ll be honest, I’ve never been great with definitions. But I know what love feels like, because I’ve been coming home to it every day since I met you.
They say the odds of finding someone who understands your silence, are slimmer than rain falling upward. But I met you and now, I question gravity.
You showed up like a well-timed metaphor in a sentence that didn’t know it needed saving. It was not too loud, not scripted, just about right.
Love, with you, feels like laughing in traffic because you said something stupid and perfect. Like knowing someone is in your corner; not just clapping when you win, but holding you steady when you don’t.
Like the way your presence turns a regular Thursday into something worth writing a poem about.
You don’t just turn up, you stay. You’re not here to fix me; you just make it easier to breathe, like stillness after a long day, or the first sip of tea when it’s raining outside.
You’ve seen me in the in-between; in the mess of my worst days, in the silence of doubt, and you’ve never once asked me to hurry.
You carry your past like a spine, not ashamed of the weight, but as something that’s taught you how to stand tall.
They don’t tell you this, but love isn’t always grand gestures. Sometimes it’s, switching off the lights because I forgot, pulling the blanket over me at 3 a.m., charging my phone when I’ve left it dying. It’s the way you don’t flinch when I fall apart; you just sit there, reserve space, and make sure I come back whole.
Love, with you, is quiet. Not because it’s small, but because it knows it doesn’t need to raise its voice to be heard. It’s a blissful #HappilyEverMiNe because I know, like poetry, we rhyme.
Love, with you, is a relaxing afternoon read, the kind where I lose track of time, curled up with something I don’t have to rush through. It’s the quiet conviction that I’m exactly where I want to be.
And when you laugh, it’s not music, but the moment before the music, the hush that tells you, something beautiful is about to happen.
So if the universe still insists on an answer, I will not recite dictionaries. I will invite it for coffee, point to the man who always gets the ratio right. And smile to let it see; the way you love without performance, the way you stand still in a world that spins too fast, the way my name sounds truer and different when you say it.
Memory is a room I can’t leave. The walls echo with your laughter, soft and familiar, but the silence that follows is deafening.
Life is moving forward, even without you. The world’s spinning, the calendar changes, the sun still rises, people laugh, take photos, toast champagne. Things are happening. I am living… but ain’t alive!
Every day, I miss you in a different way. Some days, in tears. Other days, in the way my hands tremble when I fold your favourite shirt that still smells like summer. Nothing is complete without you. And nothing ever will be. I am not the same, and I won’t ever be; not in the way that matters.
They say, grief dulls with time. That it softens, settles, fades, becomes a whisper… They’re wrong. It sharpens. It shapeshifts. It emerges in a song you used to hum, a joke you’d ruin on purpose, the emptiness of your seat at the dinner table.
Grief is a wound that never heals. It sinks, deeper. Until it becomes a part of you… Your breath, your blood, your bones.
You grow more guarded, more anxious, You hold your people closer, like they’re made of glass and you’re made of fear.
You live two lives. One is visible. You smile, you speak, you show up, You do the things. The other is hidden in the folds of your mind, where time still belongs to you, and laughter hasn’t turned to ghost. Where you exist, untouched by loss.
Memory is a room I can’t leave. I sit by the window, hoping that in my defiance, in my unwillingness to let go, you might forgive!
Your heart sings a song, Happy as the day is long. Every verse, so gloriously familiar, A resounding melody melting my heart cavalier. I hear the music travel along, Knowing this is where I belong!
I spoke to you last night,
of things that make you go quiet,
that stir your soul with delight,
the fears and misgivings that make you hide from sight,
the mysteries that keep you up through the night,
the raging fire of untapped emotions,
you long to ignite.
I listen to you as you summarize,
your life—its lows and highs,
and I’ve come to see how beauty lies
in every crack that no one spies,
I follow each word you softly verbalize,
about your dreams, still waiting to be actualized.
You shared how mirrors scare you…
reflecting your wasting worth each time you view.
I sit there quietly, aching at how it’s untrue,
thinking, maybe all you need is a change of view,
until you turn to me and ask…
to be your mirror, through and through.
- Neha Sharma
With you, I am never at a loss for words – You are my every solved game of Scrabble, The unscripted script to my endless babble, Including the parentheses in my every tattle, The only meaning to all my vocables!
“Sometimes when you feel buried, you’re just planted.”
Maybe your lies were your sanctuary, maybe I helped fan your cowardice; by letting my rationality heedlessly bury, maybe my hurt was the crown to your glory, Or maybe... I simply found solace in our fiction, on the contrary!
Accidental Epiphanies 