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