Exchanging diaries is a love language; it's like welcoming them into your life with pieces of words. Maybe those words involve you, yes, you. They might not directly remember you, but all the words lead to you. These writings include feelings for you that hurt and emotions that are stuck inside you. Maybe they include thoughts on life in your absence; maybe when I write about you, my mind goes blank. Maybe it's an empty diary that speaks volumes in the absence of words. Maybe exchanging diaries is an excuse for a meeting. Maybe we both know how life is without each other.

Tumhara muje ye batana ki tumhra din kaisa guzra, muje ye batayega ki meri raat kaisi guzregi.

I have so much love for her. and she doesn't want it. and i can't have it because it's not mine, and I can't give it to anyone or anything else because it's not theirs. it's hers, all hers and there's no where else to put it. it's so fucking heavy, and i have nowhere to put it.

Mai usse kaise kehta "mai udaas hu"?
Maine kaha- baate karte rehna.

I have fooled myself.
I needed to.
Because back then, I had to hold onto those dreams to survive.
I had no will to confront the ugliness of my reality.
And I had no will to face the consequences of such committment.
You were my safe home.
And I am the thirsty poetic lover.
But, I knew it was a matter of time."

She isn't the only sunflower in the garden, but she's the one I'd always pick.

Sometimes i regret everything.

They tell me not to have regrets. i don't think it's in our hands. We'll always regret the choices that we did not make. And sometimes the choices that we did make.

I want to cook in the kitchen with you.

I prep the spices, you rinse the veggies.

I dice the garlic, you laugh at how I chop.

I google a baking soda substitute, you stir the soup.

It really is easier with two.

I want to enjoy a meal with you.

I pour your wine, you wish me cheers.

I put more salt, you tell me there's enough already.

I make bad jokes, you somehow still laugh.

It tastes more bitter alone.

I want to clean up with you.

I take the trash, you clear the table.

I wash the dishes, you dry and put them away.

I wipe the counters, you finish your wine.

What will I do with all these leftovers?

Darling, the moon is still the moon in all of it's phases. So do you

From that very first glance, I knew. It wasn't just your beauty that captivated me; it was the soulful symphony that played in your laugh, the poetry written in the lines of your hands, the stories your eyes told without a single word. You were not just someone I had met; you were the missing piece of a puzzle I had been unknowingly assembling all my life.

You're my wind, I'm your dust. Carry me away, for good.

A hug is like a language all its own, speaking straight to the heart when words stumble. It's a gentle squeeze that whispers love louder than any words can. Each embrace tells a story of care, stitching up hurt feelings and weaving bonds.

The human touch is a lifeline, essential for our well-being. It's the warmth that breathes life into our existence, nourishing us from within, it's like being cocooned in a heaven of comfort, surpassing the power of any spoken word.

You will hurt people. You will hurt, and you will be hurt. However, you will also love, and you will be loved in the most magnificent ways. To live life is to understand that together these extremes thrive within us - our heart is both a blessing and a blade. To put our soul into the hands of someone who could wound it or heal it is quite possibly the most courageously beautiful risk we take. It is like looking someone right in the eye and saying "You may hurt me, but you may also love me, and I am willing to take that chance. I am willing to trust.

I wonder if the things that reminds me of you, remind you of me.