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four senses

the first time i heard the sun

was when you looked at me,

and your eyes of color

donated and donated,

until they ran out.

you are gone and i am here,

but i still hear you in my windchimes,

tell me,

is there a medicine for seeing the night sky

on the palms of your hands?

the leaves on my plants wilt in the summer,

in the winter, in the autumn,

in the monsoon,

and the bugs who were your friends

now destroy my perfect garden

the tattoo of you

that i have inked within my eyelids

infuriates me beyond imagination

because it is but a caricature,

an imitation of you

the dirt in between my fingernails

is evidence of my drudgery,

but if i cannot remember the lines

on your face at the end of the day,

what use is my hard work?

every day at five my itch awakens me,

and i think,

“the morning is cloudless, full of citrus,

and the smell of you”,

and i am lucid and delusional

i hate you, and myself,

because i am here, and you are gone.

Editors: Luna Y., Uzayer M., Alisha B., Blenda Y.

Image Source: Unsplash


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