From The Quill

 They say it is destiny,  What happens under Your scrutiny. They say it is meant to be,  You puppet the strings of me. They say it is an order  Of universe, divine numbers  And laws in patterns sublime; But isn't the universe itself an absolute?  A lawless, timeless, endless attribute?  Isn't the earth in unorganised havoc?  Isn't it chaos that runs the cosmos? © Suranya

"This tastes funny." He made a face at the now cold cup of tea. "Yes." She agreed with a slight giggle. "You added salt instead of sugar." "Why did you drink it then?" He asked, surprised, staring at her empty cup. She smiled. "Because it's the first cup of tea you made for me. It's the sweetest cuppa I've ever had." "Ew. Mushy." He shook his head with a silly smile that made her laugh her heart out. He fell a bit more in love that day. © Suranya

Sometimes the smallest actions speak more than big gestures. Like you are walking down a road and you see their favourite flower, you send them a picture as a reminder that you remember their favourite flower. Or when you walk into a departmental store and see something in their favourite colour and decide to surprise them by wearing it the next time they see you. You care enough to share a picture of yourself every day, even at your worst, because they can't see you soon. Or write them a letter to keep and read whenever they miss you. You often try to read their favourite books or hear their favourite kind of music to understand a person better. Try their favourite drinks or meal to see if you can share one on the next date. Or simply ask, How was your day? And hear them rant. No judgment, no advice. No amount of gifts, big surprise gestures or anything else can replace genuine efforts. © Suranya

 I often wonder how queens waited  After every battle, I was  Unsure of the king's return. Or the captive princess  For the wanderer to free her  From the shackles of society.  Or the silent bare tree waits  For winter to be over  To fill its branches in bloom;  Or how the birds wait  For migratory season  To find another home.  I promised myself over and over.  I wasn't like them at all. Yet I found myself  Waiting for you  At every chance I got. © Suranya

 Her hair tangled like her heart  She walked through the aisle  Looking for customers, in need. Her dress as dark as her skin,  Desire-filled eyes eat into her body  His hands on her naked skin,  Her soul untouched, face painted,  Character questioned,  He'd leave before dawn  In fear of being seen with her, As she displayed in a tease;  Their hunger was her morsel  With yet another man, she leaves. Then one night she chanced upon him.  He was looking for a story he had never heard,  She had aplenty, some cruel some funny;  They talked through the darkness into dawn  And they both knew it was just a start.  Days passed by, people teased,  She who was forbidden to love a man,  Had shown one her empty soul.  He was slowly filling it with wisdom;  Each night, he smiled and left a note.  The writer in him turned Poet for her,  He had found his rhythm and rhyme,  In her words, e...

 Tired from a never-ending journey  The wanderer looked to rest.  Bruised and weary, he'd stop.  And ask the Universe for directions.  Time and again, the sun smiled,  The stars ignited a hope in him,  The moon showed a path to go on,  The nature echoed in a chorus theme,  "Tomorrow you will be Home!"  Tomorrow turned into yesterday,  Years, decades and eras passed,  Yet like the wind aimless and worn,  He roamed the paths, lovelorn. Never giving up on his faith,  Hurt and healed by people he had met,  Faith finally led him to a door  And just like that, he was home. © Suranya