Words

I can't do better than this today. Writing #TheHashtagStory after a long time. And feeling so out of practice. I think I should write stories often to improve my story-writing skills. For more hashtag stories, stalk me on - Facebook , Twitter and Instagram

i may sound like drizzle but i'm monsoon rain the passion seeped into your bones the love running in your veins i'm that old cassette you can never throw away i'm neat whiskey you drink after a tiring day you've fallen in love after me but no woman can rock your world i'm the storm you chased i'm the photo you burned what if we meet again ...on cold august dawn? would you pour wet kisses? would you play our favorite song? it was many moons ago i still remember how i felt your body weight on me and how miserable i was when you left but i take pride as no one can love you the way i did i was your 3 am phone call i'm the first 150 pages of your manuscript it was half-hell, half-heaven the time we spent it was too powerful to be true it had to end i bet you think of me sometimes my memories have not gathered dust we both know it was true i was the first girl you loved

There is a thing with dreams - they are yours, and yours only. And there is another thing with dreams - the dirtier they are, the more fun they are to remember. You can wrestle naked in the mud with your beau, and it seems the poshest thing ever. You feel like Woody Allen's heroine who can bare-it-all to show passion. Even I had a dream that was so sensuous my body temperature soared. It was with a man on whom I have a secret crush. And you know the best part - I'm sure he would approve of what all we did. But that's beside the point. It has been two weeks since our illicit dream and it has been two whole weeks I'm thinking why my brain worked the way it did. I have no repressed fantasies. I have no urges either. Then, why! Oh, why! This dream has been giving me sleepless nights since. Even today, much before my feet touched the floor in the morning, his thought touched every pore of my body. I picked my phone from the bedside and scrolled the Facebook feed. I...

For more hashtag stories, stalk me on - Facebook , Twitter and Instagram

For more hashtag stories, stalk me on - Facebook , Twitter and Instagram

i loved a boy who knew nothing about prose his tongue got tied if i called another name for a rose his words were straight his thoughts crystal clear love so pure and acts sincere Only a folly he did that night held me by my waist very-very tight i scurried through my brain no words came out but my body was screaming ever-so-loud as a poet, you'd say i should know a perfect rhyme hell, it was neither the place nor it was time i turned into something better the moment he touched the curves i became woman from a girl and poet of a few words the waves came crashing like there was a tsunami inside if he'd left me that moment i would've died that night twisting-turning on my wrinkled bed sheet i felt different i felt complete *image source - here **posting a light romantic poem after ages

‘It all started with a smiley,’ she said. ‘Smiley!’ ‘Yeah, a cute little smiley on the ovulation test. The one which shows your most fertile days,’ she clarified. We have been trying for two years then, casually. Nothing serious. We were young. 25 and a few months here and there. Then, just before holidays, I bought an ovulation test for myself. I picked it from the aisle in Walmart, close to the condoms section. I said, ‘gift me this for Christmas,’ and he agreed. Just like that. He agreed, picked a 10-count box and threw in the cart, along with sanitary pads and dental floss. I still remember. We laughed, made a few jokes and went to Roy’s home for dinner. It was there in the trunk of the car the entire evening. We picked it when we came back home. I didn’t use it that month. I was busy, very busy. ‘Hmmm… so you never get it wrapped and he didn’t place in under the Christmas tree,’ he joked. ‘No, no, no! He bought another gift for me and put that under the tree, ins...