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Dec 2024
it’s as if
isn’t it poetic
that i keep reminding myself
of nights with you
as if they keep the pulse
jumping and skipping?
minutes go by,
regretting the way i’ve handled such careful things
with such careless hands,
bruised and uncertain.
i’ve always been friendless,
straying into homes where the welcome is hesitant and worried
the connection we had
is hanging on the clotheslines outside
letting the air feast on it
and if you offer me a world
where the status doesn’t define my existence
or linger in the ether,
i will be satisfied.
the things we give in to define us
unless we prove otherwise.
and isn’t it poetic
how i write like you’re dead
or washed upon some shoreline,
sinking into the sand, feeling the pulse of your hands
for one last time?
isn’t it pathetic
that i think you can hear this,
this desperate plea,
begging to reach you,
but getting caught up in the
much more fashionable moment?
i’d never dreamed i’d have a husband
knitting in boredom, loving in spite of the
curses and the lack of courage.
isn’t it pathetic that i think about marrying
even at a time like this,
where you are staring at a moon
i can’t seem to fathom?
and sometimes,
i lose myself in my own weaknesses
and let them define me,
would you deny me,
if i offered you my earn?
isn’t it poetic that even in the depths of despair,
i still remember who you were
and i was confused
why such lovely things
could happen to the feeble?
i might never define what it felt like,
just that it was alright,
and i feel invincible:
guess love does that after all.
this is a bad one too.

written yesterday
published: 12/27/28
louella
Written by
louella  18/F/wherever you are
(18/F/wherever you are)   
21
   hamid khan
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