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The Phases of Love

We all in our school must have studied the phases of the moon, at least once. Of course we did. At that age, I didn’t give much thought beyond learning what was taught just to pass exams. The moon was merely another chapter in the textbook, and I forgot about it later (hehe). As the summers passed, I gradually began to understand the phases of the moon in a way most people might not. Who doesn’t like to look at the clear sky at night? Stare at the stars until you forget the count? Or draw imaginary characters by mapping them together? I was that kid. I am that kid, actually. Even now, I look at the sky as if one day it might disappear and I would lose the opportunity to connect with my soulmate. Someone once told me that if you look at the night sky and think about your loved one, they, too, are thinking about you. (i forgot who told me this, but thanks for feeding my delusions. I shall find you one day threat )  I cannot help but think about how love can be simply seen in every po...
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What is Home?


Is home the first place that taught you the weight of being a burden?

That childhood door you slammed behind you,

the silent walls you spoke to more than people,

the air heavy with everything that was never said out loud. 


Or is it the place you yearn to crawl back to? 

In the moments of ruin, when the world feels too sharp and your soul too tender.

A place to gather the broken pieces of yourself,

to sit quietly and put them back together,

where there is no judgement, no comparison, no need to compete.

Only the comfort of being allowed to simply exist.  


Is home the place that first taught you darkness?

That not all monsters live under your bed, some sit at the dinner table.

That even love can come in raised voices and silences that lasts too long.

A place that forced you to build walls within yourself,

just to survive.


But maybe,

Maybe home is also a place that teaches you peace,

not loud, not dramatic, but a soft exhale at the end of a long, exhausting day.

The scent of old books, the hum of the fan, the mug of chai no one makes quiet the same.

Maybe it’s the quiet understanding that no matter how far you drift,

there will always be a place somewhere, or someone, who holds the light on for you.


So what is home, really?

Maybe it’s a paradox,

both ache and comfort,

the scar and balm. 

The place you left behind,

and the place you’re always reaching for.

Not always a house. Not always a name.

Sometimes, a moment,

one that stays.

Sometimes, just a feeling,

a flicker in time,

that lingers long after everything else fades.


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