My thoughts

  In a cozy nook, with papers piled high,
 A mother writes tales where dreams can fly.
 Her pen dances across the page,
 Crafting worlds, turning each stage. Her son, in the room next door,
 Builds robots on the creaky floor.
 Sparks and wires, gears that whir,
 In his eyes, a future blur. "Mom, look! It moves and blinks!" 
 He proudly shows his latest links.
 She smiles, a pen tucked in her hair,
 And dreams of robots in her lair. "My dear," she says with a glint in her eye,
 "Your robots would surely make them fly!" 
 He laughs, knowing well her plots are grand,
 Where machines and heroes walk hand in hand. Together they spin tales and dreams,
 Of circuits buzzing and magic beams.
 A writer's heart, a builder's mind,
 In their world, both are entwined. So here's to the pen and the circuit bright,
 To stories woven in the dead of night.
 A mother and son, each a creator,
 Crafting futures, sooner or later.   _A...

  The body in the bed is just a shape of stone, A warmth I once called home, now I am alone. The echo of a promise in the space between our sheets, A language of forgetting in these solitary streets. You trace the patterned lies upon my patient skin, A script I couldn't read, a game I couldn't win. Each "I am fine" you uttered, a brick within a wall, I watch the silent building of my solitary fall. The cruelty is the normal, the coffee cup, the kiss, The meticulous architecture of such calculated bliss . You are a careful craftsman of the hollow and the deep, A secret you are keeping even in your sleep. This is not a shattering, a single, bloody break, But the slow and steady weathering, an endless, dull heartache . To hold the hand that holds the knife, a most peculiar art, To be so desperately lonely with your own heart pressed against his heart. Alpana Saha 19TH November 2025💔