I write to forget the days that broke me into a million nights.

Reading a stranger’s words and finding yourself in them.

I am the poet, you are the poem; I hold the pen, you are the words, love is the ink, silence is the blank page.

We crafted everything that hurt us into art.

The pen, a double-edged mystery: cuts the writer, heals the reader.

The things you let go will someday teach you how to fly.

Your eyes see me in ways the mirror never could.

The sky is a girl who speaks in thunder, moves in lightning, hides her sorrow with clouds, cries in raindrops,and apologises with rainbows.

I write to create a sky where the moon can touch the sun and not get burned.

Every avalanche was once a lonely snowflake, every flood was once an aching raindrop.

You are my favourite part of me.

The sun loved me again when it saw that the stars would not abandon me.

You fade slowly till no one sees you disappear.

And on the days I couldn’t breathe, I learned to paint air.

I know where nowhere is, I know where nowhere leads, it’s the place you go when you have nothing left to lose but you.

Everything that drowned me taught me how to swim.

Would you still read me when I become a blank page.