Punctuation marks. Hot pink.

To me you were always this sweet pink question mark.

A wildcard that was safe to keep in my pocket.

First you found someone new, your blue comma.

And when that sentence ended, I was already happily snuggling with a new purple exclamation mark.

A new paragraph began; you told me I was a pink question mark. Hot pink.

But we never found the same page; we weren’t typed onto the same line as we hoped.

Now you have your yellow dash and I’m in an ellipsis being shipped to another book.

Maybe I’ll still keep my sweet pink question mark and place it on a happy page.




A glass full of cold yogurt stared mercilessly at a mug full of hot coffee.

‘When did it become like this? You lose your warmth and with that, you become unwanted, cold. And I, I lose my cool, I’ll become warm and undesirable. When did it become like this?’


I am here but I’m not really here.

I’m able to think but does that mean I exist?

I may walk but I cannot touch. I can speak but I’m rarely heard. Actually, I don’t remember the last time someone listened to me.

Here I am in this room. It has four walls and two big windows with worn out window-sills. The white paint is scraping away. The glass is old and it twistes the scenery.

The only comfort I have here apart from the ghostly light creeping in from the windows is a grand piano standing in the middle of the room.

Usually, I sit by the piano and lean on it trying to remember how playing it sounds. Sometimes, I just watch through the window. Days fly by, years and decades even but I am not old.