Just a little poem for my introverted overthinking friends and strangers

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It's three in the night, and I'm writing to you.
The sky's dripping into your mug
And you taste rain.
It's the same mug in which you once used to drink hot rainbows,
Topped with chocolate chips.

The days taste cold and bland.
And so does your tea.
The nights smell of meltdown,
Puffy eyes, lips quivering – like the flickering of an old tubelight.
You long to remember the feeling of returning home,
After a long hard day of work –
Unbuttoning your shirt, you'd change into loosely hung clothes,
And lie down on your warm bed.

Like Polaroids exposed to sunlight for months,
Your memories begin to fade.
The way you cry into your palms and your pillows, it's almost like
Your sadness suffers from stage fright.
You've swapped shimmery LBDs for nightgowns,
And eyeliners for dark circles.
The night is spilling into morning,
And you're staring at your celling,...