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619
Sweetest Sin
All I see is red everywhere
The color of this wine,
the way your eyes align,
or how your lips
could never quite be mine.
One look and I’m a mess,
all I see is red everywhere,
deep within these layers,
somewhere in my heart’s despair,
all I wanted
was for you to care.
The way you felt,
Oh the way you felt,
was never enough
could never be much.
You were my sweetest sin,
my sweetest sin
the high I couldn't give up.
I wanted so much more,
craving you to my core.
My heart kept beating for yours,
the sins I’d never do,
I’d do just to be adored.
The wine I longed to drink
was yours alone to pour,
but did you ever listen?
All I wanted to say was
Mi Amore.
One look and I was a mess,
all I saw was red everywhere,
buried beneath these layers,
somewhere in my heart’s despair,
all I wanted
was for you to care.
The way you felt,
Oh the way you felt,
was never enough
could never be much.
You were my sweetest sin,
my sweetest sin
the high I couldn't give up.
A prayer you were,
one I thought would come true.
Never felt so lost,
never this blue.
All you ever could be
was a sweet sin to me.
All you ever could be
was a sweet, sweet sin to me.
– Iris
619
मेरे कान्हा,
ना चाहती हूँ ये संसार,
ना चाहती हूँ किसी का दुलार,
बस चाहती हूँ तो सिर्फ़ तुम्हारा ये प्यार।
फीका लगे ये साज-श्रृंगार,
जब तक तुम मुस्कुरा ना दो एक बार।
मेरे कान्हा,
ना किसी से बतलाती हूँ,
ना किसी को कुछ सुनाती हूँ,
लेकिन तुमको?
तुम्हारी एक मुस्कान देखने के लिए
खींची चली आती हूँ।
क्यों करवाते हो इतना इंतज़ार,
ये जानकर भी कि तुम्हारी सखी
नहीं रह सकेगी तुम बिन बार-बार?
चलो, जाने दो...
जन्मदिन मुबारक हो।
मेरे कान्हा,
खूब माखन-मिश्री खाना,
और जब आओ,
तो अपनी सखी के लिए भी लाना।
619
“One smile of yours, from far, far away, can undo me so well that I—end up losing my present.”
619
And just when I was about to speak,
you hushed me ever so softly—
with a kiss upon my lips.
Whispering wonders in my ears,
eyes half-drunk, half-smitten,
by a potion I’m yet to find.
619
Hazy flirting
My subconscious has clearly gone rogue!
How can it show me something so absurdly beautiful?
The world below us seemed almost unreal,
from the top of that quiet hill,
where you and I stood so still.
The mountains stretched beneath the fading light,
and you leaned closer—your chin on my shoulder.
For a moment, everything felt strangely right.
Then came the part where I turned pink,
when you smoothly whispered near my ear—
“I’d blame the mountains,
but my eyes kept falling on your lips.”
I sighed, barely audible,
before whispering back to you—
“You never stop, do you?”
My eyes saw nothing but your lips,
my ears heard nothing but your voice.
Everything else seemed to fade away—
leaving only your lips in my sight,
and your voice beside my ear.
“You never asked me to stop.”
“Just because I never said it…
doesn’t mean you don’t get the hints.”
“Oh, I understand them.”
“Then why are you still looking?”
And you whispered back,
so effortlessly, so much like you—
“Because you haven’t looked away.”
And I didn't.
I kept looking, though I knew I shouldn't,
lost in a moment far too good to be real.
Perhaps the dream was never meant to fade—
perhaps it was the sweetest mistake my mind had made.
– Iris
619
The rain of ideas has stopped.
The train of thoughts is broken.
I am standing in a desert.
Alone, and lost.
619
Two Steps
Oh, how to describe
in mere metaphors
that one moment
when your hand was in mine
for the very first time.
You were simply helping me
when I almost fell
and extended my hand,
which you caught with yours,
to help me cross
that little rainwater puddle
separating us
before we continued our journey.
You were unaware
of what that brief touch
did to my heart.
Your face, too innocent
for me to tear my gaze away.
Yet I never truly looked at you
because I felt pink and shy.
You were helping,
I was falling.
Falling into a maze so deep,
I know it's not for me to seek.
I am a fool
to even think of you.
You will never be for me
what I truly want you to be.
Yet that moment
made a home in my heart.
I'll never forget how I felt
when your hand held mine
and it made me imagine
something called a 'start'.
– Iris
619
And since you said, “tell me,”
I came to tell you a little story—
That there was a flower,
adorned with delicate pink petals,
growing beneath a great big tree,
swaying in the sweet, sweet breeze.
Then one day, a wild bird arrived,
tore the flower away and took it alive.
Holding it in its beak,
it kept flying away,
and the poor flower
kept withering away.
But when the bird did not realise,
that the flower slowly lost it's life.
619
I was walking and walking.
Perhaps,
blindly enough.
For I did not notice
that you
had changed your self-made route—
the one we were supposed to walk together.
And I was still walking,
believing you were beside me.
619
I feel something crawling
in the depths
of my hollow chest.
It hurts.
It aches.
It keeps pulling me back
into the darkness
that never seems to end.
No light finds
its way here.
The crawling lingers
as if it feeds
on the hollow within.
The wound in my heart,
left by the knife
lodged through my back,
bleeds blue blood.
The hurt, the ache—
all numb.
Perhaps this is what remains
after bleeding
for far too long.
My body feels exhausted,
light even,
as if floating in thin air.
My head spins,
not in a bad way,
but in a hazy,
drowsy,
dreamlike state.
619
A friend is someone who stays—
through ordinary days and unexpected storms,
through every time and every place.
True friendships are rare.
If life blesses you with one,
hold it close.
I know I have what people call
a true friendship.
With you.
Somehow, the days feel lighter because you're in them,
and the world a little kinder because I never have to face it alone.
Thank you for being my friend.
For being the shoulder I can lean on,
the comfort I can trust,
and the heart that never lets me feel alone.
I hope everyone gets to find a friend like you
at least once in this lifetime.
I love you, my dearest friend.
619
How dainty and tinted that soul might be,
for it is ever seeking the comfort it never reaches?
619
Who is she?
His wife.
That's the label she carries,
a tag she bears
since the day she's been married.
Her introduction starts with "Mrs.",
and never her name.
Why would it?
She's not supposed to have any fame.
Only that tag—
to tell the world she's been claimed.
Some are proud of it,
some feel ashamed,
while some are just in pain.
I don't question the marriage,
neither the titles nor the names.
But why is she the only one retained?
The tag is on her,
the ring is on her,
Miss, Mrs., Ms.—all for her.
Then why only Mr. for him,
and a ring he doesn't even wear?
"His" we say,
as if that's all she should be.
If that's not limiting her,
then what could it be?
She is only his wife,
but is he her husband only?
Titles, tags, names
are just words defining.
If that's so—
then why does she need to have three?
Now you'll question,
"Change your perception,
look at the other side."
I did, and I do,
yet I still can't find
if these are only words,
why do they weigh so differently?
Let me put it this way:
before she was "his"
she had a name.
– Iris
619
That Song By Him
Once, a song was sung
by him to me.
A song so dear to me,
a song my heart loved so much.
Yet more than the melody,
it was his voice
that made it home to me.
The song has long since ended,
yet somehow never left.
Between the falling rain,
his voice lingers in the quiet, forever kept.
And every time I hear
those familiar notes again,
I'm taken back to the evening
when kindness found its voice.
Perhaps that's why,
sometimes I cherish rainy days.
They carry echoes of that gentle voice,
reaching my heart in the softest ways.
And though the moment has long slipped away,
the song remains—
still with me,
just as its name promised.
Maybe that's why
I'll never outgrow rainy days.
They'll always remind me that once,
someone sang the storm away.
— Iris
619
There are poems inside of me
that papers can't handle.
They burn in my chest
like the thread of a candle.
Screams wanting to be inked,
and if I do, they'll seem like rambles.
The threads ignite a light,
all twists and tangles.
The penned ones are a glimpse
of the drama my heart gambles.
