Timsal Fatima
You are glinting silverware, tucked in a red velvet cloth. I am a jilted pot with shabby apertures. My bedroom windows leak while yours are bandaged by their wounds. I watch the dead crows in my derelict garden and think about the Hyacinths that bless your dawns with avian melodies. You left me to the inevitabilities of the Seventh Age. I want you to see my flower-crowned purple wounds and the marks that my dried tears have left on my quivering old lips. But you have slept like a baby, in an old photo album, to never wake up again.
The writer is a student of English Literature at GC University, Lahore and can be reached at: timsalfatima27@gmail.com
