THE ARCHIVIST OF MY HEART🫴

I say I’ll forget,

but memory is a tide that never leaves the shore.

Your name is stitched into the quiet of my nights,

thread by thread,

like constellations refusing to fall from the sky.

The silence always remembers—

it hums your echo in the hollow of my chest,

folds your shadow into every pause between my breaths,

and keeps you alive

where even dreams are afraid to linger.

I try to let go,

but the heart is a stubborn archivist,

pressing your moments like fragile flowers

between the pages of my soul.

And so I live—

half in the forgetting,

half in the eternal remembrance of you

-VAISHNAVI DHAMODHARAN

Comments

INK & SILENCE

She writes in verses, soft and deep, Where love and longing gently sleep. In every line, his name takes flight, A quiet star in her endless night. Her pen bleeds dreams he cannot read, Though he's the muse, he doesn't heed. He speaks in glances, not in rhyme, His world runs fast, not marked by time. She hands him poems, heart unrolled, He shrugs, not grasping what they hold. No praise, no pause, no gentle sigh, Just puzzled looks and passing by. Yet still she writes — her silent art, With hope that someday he’ll take part. Not in her stanzas, line by line, But in the space where meanings shine. For love speaks not in ink alone, It’s in the way two hearts are shown. She dreams he'll learn, not how to write, But how to feel her quiet light. And maybe when her pages fade, He'll miss the words he never weighed — The girl who built a world so wide, While he stood watching from outside - V@!$HN@V! DH@M0DH@₹@N

The Name that Paints my Face❤️

After gym, the world was slow, But he appeared with that golden glow. Sleep still dancing in his eyes, Skin like dawn, where sunlight lies. I stood there, lost—my heart a flame, My soul igniting just from his name. My mind went blank, my lips went wide, My blush refused to run and hide. Teeth on show, and cheeks so red, Thoughts of him raced through my head. My mom just stared: "Why do you grin?" But how could I cage what lives within? His name—it’s magic. Just one sound, And butterflies all gather ‘round. No warning, just that lovely burn— My smile too stubborn to unlearn. His waking eyes—oh, heaven’s hue, Like morning skies dipped fresh in dew. I’ve seen no art, no painted light, That ever matched that quiet sight. So now, I laugh like love’s own fool, No calm, no cool, no practiced rule. Because just his name can light my days, And set my silence all ablaze.

VOIDBOUND

Overthinkers don’t fall slowly; they sink. They attach with their whole nervous system, not just their heart. A delayed reply can feel like rejection. A shorter sentence can feel like distance. A change in tone can rewrite their entire day. They read between lines that were never written, notice pauses others overlook, feel shifts before they’re spoken. Their mood becomes a mirror— reflecting how loved, wanted, or safe they think the other person feels toward them. It’s not a weakness. It’s hyper-awareness born from caring too deeply, too honestly. They don’t just listen to words; they listen to energy. And when that energy changes, even slightly, their mind starts asking questions their heart isn’t ready to answer. Overthinkers don’t need grand gestures. They need consistency. Reassurance. Gentle clarity. Because when they love, they don’t just love the person— They carry the weight of every unsaid thing too. -VAISHNAVI DHAMODHARAN 🩵

Vaishu writes

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