Thinking about how every love song or love prose or love poem is only ever written for just one person to read.

Even if it’s published in a book or printed in a magazine or posted on a blog. Even if it generates income or has a fanbase. Even if it’s carved on a pedestal, sung in concerts.

An open letter, free for all to read, addressed to just one. Only ever truly meant for one.

The intimacy of spending a day with someone and then missing them from the very moment you part ways, knowing they’re probably thinking about you too.

Yeah that’s a love language.

Good friends.Goodfriends.

Get yourself good friends. Get yourself friends who you adore, friends who call you cute, friends you have something in common with, friends you can dance with, friends who make you laugh, friends who are just as dumb as you, friends who are definitely dumber than you, friends who make fun of you, friends you enjoy with. But perhaps most mundanely importantly, friends who you are comfortablewith.

Comfort is such an integral but overlooked part of any human relationship. It’s the innate warmness of knowing that you can be a smouldering mess and they won’t mind. Such a happy realisation that this stretch of space between you and them is your own, without the mortifying ordeal of being know.

Comfort is a higher level of tuning, a deeper understanding. It’s something that only time and trust can grow. Somebody you can be with without making your brain do laps and push ups. No thoughts, head empty. Just straight up vibes.

It’s the joy of meeting your friend in pjs. The chaotic excitement of a thousand texts you send your best friend when embarrassing shit goes down. The straightforward trust of “I don’t like this, can you stop doing this?” And the sincerity of “I won’t, from now on.”

Get yourself goodfriends. Friends who are on the same page, friends who communicate, friends who you want to support, friends who you connect with, friends who you trust, friends who trust you, friends who understand you, friend who feel like warm blankets, friends who taste like soup, friends who remind you of characters, friends who you can hug. Friends who love you for who you are, friends who you love for who they are. Friends who feel warm and fuzzy and sweet and gentle and real.

Get yourself friends who feel like comfort.

We really are living in ✨interesting✨ times.

My “life-altering”, super important exams got postponed for the third time today and it’s so fucking funny. The utter chaos, I can’t even- Class group chats erupting with never-heard-before curse words. Teachers calling students trying to get them off of their balconies they climbed into. Relatives spamming the family gc with “how r u dear” Do not ask, don’t even dare.

Kids everywhere re-installing their instagram accounts. Everyone is all of a sudden, asking for series/ books/ movie recommendations. Some kids are happy, some are angry, some are sad, some are just over it, all of them lost.

Now I know why the Chinese phrase “May you live in interesting times” is considered a curse, rather than a blessing.

It’s still funny though

14 April 2021.

Hogwarts houses as conversations I’ve had with my friends (pt 11):

Gryffindor: so what u didn’t study, do u really have to cry about it?

Ravenclaw: *sobbing* I’m not crying because i didn’t study, dude stfu i hate u so much

Gryffindor: ️️

Hufflepuff: then why are you crying?

Ravenclaw: just …in general.

Hufflepuff: Valid in these trying times, have a nice day.

Gryffindor:

Gryffindor: literally no, what the fuck.

Fanfiction tropes as Hogwarts houses.

(Or alternatively, which hogwarts house is likely to be involved in said tropes.)

Gryffindor: rivals to friends to lovers, there was only one bed, accidentally locked themselves in a confined space (absolutely the kind of dumbassery you would expect from a gryff), idiots in love, truth and dare, OBLIVIOUSNESS, coming of age.

Hufflepuff: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, coffee shop au, FLUFF, song fics, childhood best friends, neighbors, mutual pining, accidental confession (lmfao), hot cold dynamics, soulmate au.

Ravenclaw: office romance, METAPHORS, book shop au (obviously), bonding over common interests, letter/email fics, soft nerds, project partners, DARK ACADEMIA, domestic as hell, “and they were roommates”.

Slytherin: enemies to friends to lovers (duh), Fake dating, arranged marriage, partners in crime, immortal lovers, vampire/veela/supernatural elements, Never have I ever, ANGST, secret pining, “make me.” ‘nuff said.

It kinda makes sense in a weirdly specific way if you think about it.

I’m just thinking

I was in a Comic Con in 2018, a billion years ago, where a really pretty Hufflepuff high fived me because I was wearing a Gryffindor scarf. There was this guy with a goddamn husky on his scooter who smiled at me through the window of my car. And that rockstar of a girl whom I met way back in 7th grade in a theatre workshop audition. I’ve never seen their faces again, probably never will.

Strangers are so easy to love. I know so little of them, but it’s still enough to remember. It’s like they’re frozen in those 5 seconds of life I shared with them. Maybe I’m frozen somewhere too? Backstage of a competition, in the background of somebody’s profile picture, the dance room of my old school, or maybe that road lined with dancing trees that I often lazily tread with my best friend.

Really makes you wonder if you leave the same mark on others as they do on you. If you’re the clumsy fool, the kind stranger, or the weirdo who they remember judging fleetingly. Because what is life if not the imprint of yourself you leave on the people of this world.

If no one remembers you living, were you even at all?

Breathe.

Close your eyes, what do you see?

It’s all dark and that scares me

I can’t see the roads, they all talk about

Can’t see the paths, etched on the ground

It’s a whole generation, not just me

And the world is on fire, literally.

My friends are turning eighteen, learning to drive

I’m sinking in my dreams, trying to stay alive.

We’re living in dark times,

Ignoring all war crimes.

Miss rona on the run,

Leaching out all the fun.

I’m starting to freak out

Exam dates on the look out

I know they won’t be so bad,

But the competition’s too much, and it’s all just a little sad.

Full marks and even higher

Reservations and sports trials

Where does that leave me?

In the dark, getting sleepy.

There are a million kids, who all wanna beat me

Studying ten hours, they too, must be sleepy.

Close your eyes, what do you see?

A little version of a little me

She’s eccentric and cute, and won’t stop talking

A million dreams and talents she’s unlocking

I’m still eccentric, don’t know about cute

But these days, my mind is on mute

I know, I feel, I hear, I see,

All the commotion, and the catastrophe

I know my talents, I know my dreams

And I know that I have it in me

To make it to where I need to be.

So this is a promise, to my future self,

I’m gonna stop moping, and do my best,

I’ll do all the running so you can rest,

I owe it to you, so you can love yourself.

~Anupriya Sharma

(nerdinacoolway)

14 January, 2021.

a friend.

There’s a girl I know

who strolls with a smile in her pocket.

All our conversations are kinda off topic,

She pours like honey over a burnt toast,

and never fucking agrees when I tell her to post.

She feels like clouds behind which a rainbow sleeps.

Among all the honesty, there’s sarcasm that peaks.

She mouths all the songs when she thinks no one sees,

and always has a red flush on her round cheeks.

There’s a girl I know

Who sighs to my jokes and still keeps it going.

She’s the one who spams Harry Styles with her drawings.

Her hair whip around when the wind is blowing,

Careful love, your diva is showing.

Yeah she’s sweet and all the sunlight

but for all that’s worth, there’s a diva inside.

She turns up her nose around stuff she dislikes,

and critiques food like she’s Ramsay’s wife.

She walks with a flair, turns with a twirl,

dances like the wind and her stories are a whirl,

She’s the quiet before the thunder and the lightning that follows.

Without her, my chats are all hollow.

When I think of school, her face flashes up in my mind

We didn’t like each other, but man, we had some crazy times.

She used to want to kill me,

which I think is understandable,

but we’ve played every middle school game imaginable.

In my party, we were the only ones who danced.

And It was high school when our paths finally branched,

That was when we stopped to think,

that all our memories are forever linked.

There’s a girl I know

who I’ve known forever.

And all I’ve got to say is

it’s a pleasure to know her.

~Anupriya Sharma

(nerdinacoolway)

7 January 2021.

My hoodie is warm and the sun is too

The sky is awake, but not quite blue.

You take forever, while I wait at school

hands in the pocket, I scruff my shoe.

Through the winding roads, empty but not quite

our shadows run along, black, but still bright.

Phone in hand, we act like clowns,

fucked up our plans, it’s all upside down.

Started with an adventure, ended up with a picnic,

bunked all our lectures, and nothing was scripted.

Found some puppies, I hope they’re doing well,

your eyes light up, you have so much to tell

We map the roads we did last time,

the good old rock, unbothered by time.

My hoodie is warm, and the sun is too,

The sky is open, a pretty shade of blue.

Conversations light, because what’s there left to tell

We’re roaming around lost, and my feet hurt like hell.

Still I jump around, because I have a reputation to keep

Honestly though, it’s not that deep,

I’m happy as a lamb, trying to sift from sheep.

My hoodie is warm, and the sun is bidding adieu.

The sky is closed, a darkened blue.

We’re sitting at a café and I look at you,

we’re laughing at strangers, and there are quite a few.

Our vibes immaculate, but that ain’t new.

The day slipped away, with a million things to do

I wave my hand, and you do too,

it was a circus, long overdue.

~Anupriya Sharma

(nerdinacoolway)

6 January 2021

We’re walking in sync, our hands touching gently where we keep them close to each other’s but not holding them yet. You’re not affected by the cold but I’m shivering, and your honest gaze and soft smile do the job my sweater couldn’t do: keep me warm.

I scruff my shoe at the wrappers that adorn the roads, glance at the walls that are caked black with dust, inhale the air that seems heavy with smoke, and I smile. I think, I’ve never found Delhi as beautiful as I did that day, with you.

I met you in December, when the cold gets bitter, the sky turns murky, the flowers lay bare.

In this city’s winter where you don’t feel cold, armed by the chill of where you come from. You tell me, back at home, you wake up to your green hills covered in the shein of pearly snow. I shiver at the thought, burying my hands in the depths of my pockets. You link your arm with mine, our pointy elbows keeping me cosy to my roots.

We talk about the weather without the conversation feeling barren. It’s chilly, it’s important. We have an excuse to walk closer among the bustling crowds, our hands almost always brushing each other’s, seeking warmth I haven’t yet found in my life.

In this grey cold we wear pink, purple, and orange hoodies, bright from the head to toe. That must be the reason why my vision tunnels when I look at you, the damp surroundings falling away till it’s just you and your brightness. You’re always in my periphery, bobbing around like a colourful minion. And if you carefully adjust my hoodie on my head, it’s because the wind has been hitting my face for a while, not because you want every wholesome excuse to get closer to me. If I lean my head on your shoulder sitting in an auto, yes it’s because I’m cold, not because I like the way it feels. The day feels short because the sunlight hides face at mere 5:30 in the evening, not because we don’t want to go home even after six long hours of dance practice. If I scoot an inch closer to you sitting on a bench, it’s because that’s where the sunlight is filtering through the trees, not because you feel like sunshine more than actual sunshine.

I’ve always liked winters. Winter with it’s erratic rain, and blue fingers, but this winter isn’t bitter, it’s the sweetest time of my life. This time around when I can just hold someone’s hand when my hand is starting to freeze. When I can hug someone before we part ways, gathering the warmth from his sweater and taking it with me in the metro. When I can hit him playfully after a dumb joke and he won’t feel a thing other than the touch of my fists through the layers of his clothing. When we can pretend to be sipping on our scalding tea because we don’t want to go home yet. When we can make plans to meet up and it not being weird because it’s Christmas, and a day after Christmas, and then it’s going to be New year’s eve, and the the New Year’s day. What can we say, it’s the holiday season. We can walk arm in arm in the crowded tourist places, no, not because I’ve taken a fondness for you and your lameass jokes. Not because you look at me like you’ve known me all your life. Not because we feel this certain sense of psynergy between us. No, none of these make sense. It’s simply because it gets a little cold around here, these days.

“I’m bored so let’s meet up so we can be bored together” is an underrated form of hang out that screams of comfort and fondness and love. The epitome of friendship and boredom.

When James Arthur said “We danced the night away.”

And when 5sos said “Dance around the living room, lose me in the sight of you.”

And Taylor Swift said “We’re dancing ‘round the kitchen in the refrigerator light.”

And Ed Sheeran said “Dancing in the dark, with you between my arms.”

And Harry Styles said “Kiss in the kitchen like it’s a dance floor.”

And when Claire said “Dance with me in my backyard, boy.”

And Niall Horan said “If the whole world was watching, I’d still dance with you.”

And Louis Tomlinson straight up said “You’re a nightmare, on the dance floor.”

I’d like what they’re having.

I like the cold side of the pillows, the cool coloured covers of my bitter wooded bed, not marred by the heat of another presence. I like the clean floors of my water-smelling bedroom, dusted only by my footsteps and no one else’s. I like the whole tubs of ice creams that I eat by myself, without the digging marks of a second steel spoon. The perspiration of my once icy water bottle that slips onto my study table and seeps onto the fluttering, unhurried notes. I like the detergent washed clothes that become crisp in the sun and still smell like dew. The chill of things untouched by someone else.

In my own space of one, it’s often cold but never lonely. It’s the cold that solitude brings with itself, a wise sort of scent that wafts of lessons and slow realisations.

Oh to have a writer fall in love with me so they could write poems about me, romanticise my imperfections, fill drafts upon drafts with affection, and call them fictional bullshit, like I do

It must be wonderful. And beautiful, truly breathtaking. To live in a cottage somewhere, on a beach or maybe the hills, anywhere with an open, clean sky. A cat curled up in my lap, or perhaps a dog that rests it’s chin on my foot. I have walls and walls of mounted books and a rickety ladder to reach them. And someone to hold that rickety ladder steady, so I don’t fall and break my neck. To have a person of my own, a lover, who brings me warm milk when I’m too immersed in a book. Someone I can pour all my love onto, rain it upon him, engulf him, because that’s what i believe i am made to do. I am made to love. To be loved. i have so much of it, in excess really, it’s too much, pouring out and out of my being for someone i haven’t even met yet. i exist to spread love, and experience love, dive in it, submerge in it, drown in it, and when i come up for air i breathe love and exhale love and inhale love. That’s what my existence revolves around, that’s what humanity revolves around, and i want quiet hugs and someone i can loop my arm with and someone who will kiss the top of my head and make me fall asleep when i write into the crack of morning. At dusk when we get off work, we take a detour in the little car that we own and for reasons unknown end up somehwere on a rooftop and it’s perfect because he has a guitar or a ukelele or a goddamn french horn because i really wouldn’t care because all music is music and all music is feelings and all music for us would just be love. And maybe I’d start humming in the awful way i do, and it’s not perfect, not his notes and certainly not mine, but it is what it is, and what it is: is love. i want steamy coffees that are too bitter to drink and chocolate cakes that have spoonfuls missing from the sides, a messy kitchen countertop covered in flour which i joke to be cocaine and someone laughs and flicks me on the forehead and we go sleep under the same covers, a cat purring at my feet or perhaps a dog at the foot of the bed waiting for attention. It’s all love, and that’s what I’m born to do and feel and give and take.

It’s all love and it’s all that is worth in this world, in this life, in this heart. It is all that the universe has to offer, take it.

It’s such a shame that we don’t talk anymore. A terrible waste of love, I say.

We had always been hot-blooded, but cool to the touch

protecting each other from the heat that would surely have been us

the sweat, the pulse of our bodies, intertwined and trembling

the vulnerability that comes with knowing each other’s pleasure.

For too long we tried desperately

to mitigate the damage,

you and I (a forest fire) encroaching on a tiny village of restraint.

Slow burning (at first), but burning steadily still,

and moving inward

until we had burned that village down and began dancing

in the flames.

Your body,

no longer cool to the touch, but red hot and wide open.

I always anticipate an ending

It’s my nature to prepare for a fallout.

But, if this ends…

I know that you’ll always be the girl

Sitting across from me

At a dive bar in downtown Toronto

Looking at me the way that you do -

The softness, the rebellion

All of the beautiful contradictions

That are wrapped up in you.

A look that would send me diving in after you,

A look that I didn’t know I had been yearning for.

You’ll always be the girl,

Porcelain skin, scarlet hair,

Thin lips that curl into a half-smile…

Sitting across from me at a bar

Looking at me, sipping her rye.

If this ends…

I know that I’ll still see you, seeing me

If this ends…

I know that I’ll keep looking for you

In ghosts and in other girls.

To my darling,

Would it be that the only thing
that binds us now
is our inevitable death,
at least it will prove right
the soothsayers, saying
we would have something
that lasts.

—
16-5-2022, M.A. Tempels ©

I wish I could complicate things;
Psychoanalyze the deep aches
To oblivion; cut the strings
That tear at my heart till it breaks
Again, so my soul awakes
Again, to say I can’t obscure what’s true;
Favoring layman’s terms:

I still love you.

—
15-5-2022, M.A. Tempels ©

You,

Sought solely
With the eye unspoken; blind
To light, yet in
Darkness, omniscient,
As black is the canvas
Of veracity.

Here, flow
The colours of the
Soul, awoken,
Shift-shaping nebulae to images
Exemplifying constrained
Desire;

All swallowed in fearful
Ferocity
By maw of mind, and shards
Of heart, broken; glass needles; my
Fanged cognizance.

The serpent cannot
Dream
The priory,
Therefore, it cannot
Drag its relics down dark mire
Where, coiled, the timeless truth
Stays out of view.

Where solely a blinded eye
May see, I seek fire,
To watch it flicker and dance
Till it shapes
You.

—
13-5-2022, M.A. Tempels

Infatuated sighs; a tethered heart
Allowed a confession’s wordless lean way;
Its vision too grand to crudely impart
In breath put to speech; in attempts to say:

“I will love you forever and a day.”

This, I do know: you have suffused me whole;
In ways that I first must learn to convey
The voice that spills directly from this soul,
Unexpectedly born on a quaint evening stroll.

—
11-5-2022, M.A. Tempels ©

I wake up awash in titillation,
Your sweetly animalistic fragrance
Suffuses me still, and
My heart paces
As I cling to oneiric
Creation.

I wake up trailing
Soft linens — your hair,
Toward
A crumpled duvet — your shoulder;
All the worried while my heart begs:

“Hold her”;

Nothing matters more than
Keeping you there
Where I can still have you; love you…

A kiss in the aether, there’s
Nothing I can do:

I wake up.

—
10-5-2022, M.A. Tempels ©

7-5-2022, “… a Shakespearean sonnet about a lilac girl.”