Bombay
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She sleeps. Yet she is. Without rest. She gazes. Into the dark ceiling. The seamless cover. Of black.Lit by a thousand twinkles. Interrupted by. A hazy foreground. A gray lining. Partly covering. Silver stars. Her mind wanders. She lingers. Over the past. Worries. About now. She thinks. About tomorrow. She wonders. About how. It will
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Red. Blue. Green. Cyan. Magenta. Yellow. Blink. Blink. The night. Lives on. As she does. Sparkling above. Vulgar below. Colors of torment. Of unrest. Fill her firmament. They merge. Into the night. One more night. Sleepless. Restless. Endless. Seamless. She ends. While I do not. She stops. I do not. I am enveloped. In my
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Dear Bombay, Sorry my love for writing this random letter to you. I just want to tell you that I love you. I want to tell you that I am sorry my love. I am sorry my love. I left you. I was angry. I was dejected. I was frustrated. I was hurt. I was
Hansal mehta 