feels

will you?

Saturday, September 24, 2022

prologue

three years is "not" a long time.

I spent them all, waiting to be plucked,

whenever he thought

my time's up.

the pit felt like a coffin: a dark, handsome home.

home it was,

so when I woke up, my breaths were still alive.

* * *

last night,

his letter:

thought I am still 18,

read barren and desolate

had a room for me "now" to sleep in

it's chilly there—eight crops have died in the last row

their thorn pierced my finger when I tried closing the gate

no sound of my heart, only my agony shrieked

for my cheeks have stopped kindling

the

thought

him.

I sprint,

I'm no trespasser and I'm no friend,

so I shall not visit his garden again.

today,

morning rain showered my body,

the mud's retreated back to the pit.

a bud is sprouting on my left,

my two leaves come together to thank the sun.

I face the east,

my eyes: kiss the golden streaks.

so why would I want to go back now?

be buried and left alone again?

I'm no time-traveller,