Perhaps I will always remember what came before:
that endless summer’s day when she wove her hair
with jasmine, sweet, and searched for me.
And perhaps I will never stop loving her, the recollection of the way
she used to be. I hope she won’t mind if I hold onto her
memory, while she travels to distant lands
and forgets my name.
I walk alone on that path, where she sunk
her hands in soft mud and called my name. Where
she promised with a kiss on my nose, her nose,
that she would love any part of me that I could give.
Now I leave her footprints
in the earth below.
She is my reflection; I was never hers.
I call out to the wind
and hope that she will hear me:
“Send me a letter, my love.
Or better yet, come back to me.
I kept your hands,
your pens, your paper.
The sun and I are waiting for you in Jhargram.”
Cover Photo Source: VideoHive