
12 am thoughts on streets of Vadodara
Maybe existence itself
is only a temporary arrangement of stardust
beauty borrowed briefly
from collapsing suns
before the universe remembers
how to take everything back.
Tonight,
the coffee sat inside laboratory glass
like an unfinished experiment on loneliness,
dark and warm and quietly honest.
Around me, people laughed in small constellations.
Cups touched tables.
Someone checked their phone
for a message they were pretending not to wait for.
And there I was
writing poetry on a napkin
because paper feels less permanent
than admitting things out loud.
Maybe that’s what books are too:
beautiful evidence
that humans have always been afraid
of disappearing unnoticed.
We underline sentences
hoping someone, somewhere,
once felt the exact same ache.
So if you’ve ever fallen in love
with fictional people,
rainy cafés,
midnight conversations,
or the dangerous comfort
of being deeply understood by strangers
sit here for a while.
Tell me what book destroyed you softly.