Metrography of a Flame: A Love Sketched in Suburban Reveries #BlogchatterA2Z #poetry

Mummified Mirrors in Motion

My shadow melts into the metro floor.
The metallic serpent shrieks through Gurugram’s bones.
She looks — no, you looked — no, she remembers being looked at.

The seats were vinyl red.
That’s what he said, or maybe I did,
or maybe the city murmured it between signal pauses.
Face of a stranger, lit like philosophy.
Her eyebrows — bridges.
His gaze — traffic.
Your thoughts — parades of maybe, maybe not, maybe never again.

She didn’t speak.
He didn’t breathe.
I? I inhaled the almost.
Eyes stitched with syllables yet unspoken.
We were a sigh waiting to be pronounced.
You blinked.
I blinked.
We —
blinded by that pause between stations:
MG Road. Sikanderpur.
Love.

Megabytes and Mochas

Everything is pixels. Even this affection.

At United Café, cappuccino steams like prophecy.
He types the word organic 17 times in a proposal,
hoping to grow vegetables not just on rooftops
but in hearts.
Shreya’s fingers hover over keyboard alphabets,
but secretly spell
“R-A-V-I”
in her untouched latte foam.

You sit at the third table near the window.
I know because I was there,
stirring silence into sugar packets.
You smiled. I flinched.
He wrote a poem with his eyebrows,
she giggled in Morse code.

One café.
Two algorithms colliding.
Three milliseconds of eye contact.
Four echoes of “Can I borrow that pen?”
Five letters that neither dared to say out loud.

Metastasis of Meaning

Let’s redefine letters as footprints. Let’s make vowels ache.

From: him
To: her
Subject: Chance.
cc: the universe.
bcc: every poem unwritten, every kiss postponed.

Time: 9 pm.
Emotions: wild horses.

From: her
To: him
Subject: Recognition
Dear Sir of the Morning Metro,
Yes, your eyes did trespass politely.
Yes, I did inhale a chapter of you.
No, it wasn’t an accident.
Signed:
A Woman Who Remembers.

Mnemonic Entanglements

You called it a coincidence.
We called it choreography.

Nehru Place spins under your shoes.
You walk past Skylark Building.
She pretends not to see you.
You pretend not to hope.

There’s a glitch in time, and he writes in a journal:
“I saw her again today.
Maybe the city is conspiring.
Or maybe we’re just chapters
in a dog-eared paperback
called What If.”

Melancholy with Masala Chai

At Connaught Place,
evening spreads like ghee on old parathas.
Streetlamps whisper haikus.
Ravi speaks of soil and sunsets.
Shreya offers her silence,
a gift wrapped in constellations.

Their feet play hopscotch with puddles.
Their hearts — two stubborn consonants
trying to become a verb.

I watched them.
You were them.
He remembers.
She dreams.
I narrate.

Möbius of Love

This is not the end.
It is not even the beginning of the end.
It is the breath between two messages.

From Ravi, April 12th:

> "I bought seeds today. Not just for my farm.
But maybe for us.
I don’t know what they’ll become.
But I hope you’ll help me water them.”



Shreya doesn’t write back.
Yet.
Instead, she watches the metro.
It hums through her thoughts.
She closes her eyes.
There, in the dark:
a memory —
half Ravi, half heartbeat.

Misplaced Goodbyes & Midnight Resilience

They’ll fight.
You’ll cry.
I will scribble love on windowpanes.
The world will try to pull them apart
with career promotions, pesticide prices,
and overdue rent.
But some souls wear armor made of shared glances.
Of unsent drafts.
Of accidental cafe encounters
that were never accidents.

They will fall.
They will stand.
They will misunderstand.
They will write again.

Love isn’t linear.
It’s a metro.
It stops.
It surges.
It squeaks.
It carries passengers
who don’t know their final station
but sit next to each other anyway.

#MetrographyOfAFlame #Love #UrbanRomance #PoetryInMotion #LoveInTransit #MetroMuse #RaviAndShreya #ModernLoveStory #Poetry #EmbraceTheUnseen #ResilientLove #NarrativeAlchemy

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