Shortest love story

Shall we write a short love story?

Perhaps the shortest one.

There was me, there was you.

The stars aligned so we could meet.

You were born with a hole in my shape,

And I named my emptiness after you.

For one fleeting, timeless moment—

Or maybe more, maybe aeons—

Your shape filled the hollow places

In my universe and made me whole.

And then you slipped away with the stars.

But sometimes I trace the emptiness

In the sky, shaped like distant constellations,

And wish for you to remember

Our fingers entwined.

That’s all there is to love.

Exes & Insoles

(Some men leave memories. Others leave shoe prints. These are the soles I’ve met—

the polished, the pathetic, the emotionally orthotic)

⸻

Brown Formals with Blue Socks

Said he didn’t want anything serious.

Texted at 2 a.m. for 11 months straight.

His socks were commitment issues. His shoes?

Polished apologies with hollow arches.

Italian Black Leather with Linen Trousers

Sophisticated. Repressed.

Quoted Rumi. Ghosted in iambic pentameter.

Felt like he was still writing a breakup letter to a woman from 2008.

Also probably owns a fountain pen he uses just to sign receipts.

Third-Grade Telugu Song in Slippers

He arrived offbeat, left on mute.

Didn’t know where he was going,

but insisted you come along for the “journey.”

He’s still on WhatsApp with your aunt.

Ghazal Man in Dusty Mojaris

You didn’t just fall for him.

You melted.

Then drowned.

Then wrote a sad sher about it.

He wore pain like perfume and had eyes like midnight betrayal.

White Loafers with White Socks

A clean break? Never.

He said “We should stay friends” while deleting your number.

Once posted a quote about soulmates, then liked three of your photos by accident.

Emotionally about as present as a VPN connection in a storm.

Untied Running Shoes

Perpetually working on himself.

Ran from intimacy, therapy, and brunch plans.

Probably into “mindfulness” but can’t name his own feelings.

Texts you “thinking of you” but disappears when you say “I feel the same.”

Formal Shoes at Casual Settings Guy

Emotionally overdressed for every moment.

Made you feel underdone, under-read, underwhelmed.

Had a playlist called “Heartbreak, but with dignity.”

You ghosted him out of sheer exhaustion.

The Combat Boots in July Type

Hot. Dangerous. Wounded.

Looked like a storm.

Loved like a fever.

Disappeared with your favorite hoodie.

You still miss the chaos more than you’d admit in public. 

Socks with Sandals Man

Spiritual. Suspicious. Possibly in sales.

Said “don’t judge a man by his footwear”

…turns out you absolutely should.

Heard he was caught in a scandal—crypto and such.

Still texts with “blessings” after ghosting you mid-rebirth.

His voice?

Deep enough to drown all doubts,

as long as you kept your eyes on his face.

Don’t ask about the feet.

The feet knew too much.

My Signature Shoes 

(Limited Edition. Emotionally Unghostable. Only One Pair Ever Made.)

The shoes I’ve worn—

some were borrowed.

Some too tight. Some so wrong 

I almost forget my rhythm.

My feet blistered through red carpets and back alleys.

Tiptoed through love letters and landmines.

Danced when they should’ve run.

Ran when they should’ve stayed.

These signature shoes designed 

Not for comfort. Warm, leather, 

Cool soles, match nothing except poetry, 

pain, and maybe uncensored guts.

They leave prints where others fear to tread.

They’ve danced in rain.

They’ve stomped out ghosts.

They’ve stood alone in cafés where memories order Alonge in your name.

No brand. No box.

Just one tiny label stitched on the inside:

“Still here.”

Walk

I slipped my shoes off under a sky stitched with lore; ghazals hummed by ancient stars, and echoes of parrots who remember much more.

They sighed, tired, muffled as they land between the door and the decision 

Still carrying silent ghosts of streets I wasn’t meant to walk with you on 

The earth beneath throbbed with memories 

Damp with stories that moon forgot to say , 

My feet, pale from silence,

meet the ground like a long-lost lover

hesitant. Hungry. Honest.

I walk through this city of dog poop and poetry,

through heartbreak that clings like gum on the sole

Each step, a verse.

Each pause, a prayer.

They say the night listens only to those unguarded, 

I am not polished.

Not paired.

Not walking to arrive

I walk to remember what I was before.

Shoes off. Truth on. I try not to remember 

But I walk. And think of your walk

Those feet under your feet many miles ago

And now, still yours.

Hug

It wasn’t fireworks.

No symphony.

Just the hush of arms around you—

the quietest kind of truth.

You didn’t cry.

But something inside you sighed 

the part of you that always stays braced,

always waits to be enough.

The warmth didn’t ask who you had been.

Didn’t need you to explain.

It just said:

“Here. You. Matter.”

Time slowed.

Not like a movie.

More like how dusk lingers

before it agrees to let go.

And when it ended,

you walked away

a little more whole

than when you arrived.

Not because you were fixed.

But because you were held.

Seen. For one 

whole breath of forever.

Pauses between seconds

Can you hear the wheels of time

Turning slow on forgotten roads,

Where footprints of us dissolve like mist—

softened by memory’s incessant rain 

Those wheels turn and a day becomes years,

And autumn leaves consume spring’s flowers.

Those wheels slowed down when your lips

Touched mine; other days, they sped along.

But you—

You are stitched into the pause between seconds,

A breath held by the sky herself 

Even now, in the hush between heartbeats,

You arrive in the echo of everything I never forgot.

Mita, you, who never should have left

Your breath’s precious garlands on my 

wintered soul.

Tell me how I may I get to walk again

On this grass, this ground, under that moon

Where you and I were once, just one?

And if ever we meet again—

Not in this life of numbered days,

But in the hush between stars,

Let us not speak of loss or leaving.

Just sit. Just smile. Just breathe.

No kiss is good, just you and I