sliver of the moon
stuck in my throat tonight
can’t swallow your name tonight.

they said post-pandemic would be the same as before;
i haven’t touched your face in over a year-
yes, it is the same thus.

there are twelve trees in a row,
one for each month of longing.
i ponder over the hours
and minutes,
what shall I plant for those?
marigolds, night-blooming jasmine, dandelions, roses
and thistle~
the wild and tamed all reside in this garden.

this house, lovely and old with its crumpled remains in a corner.
reminders of our lives;
like the evening dust
settled on the house.

sadness is not a word
like day, night, hungry,
it’s not a feeling, nay,
like lonely, sad, angry~
it’s a void at the bottom
of your being
knotted and distant
     and

next to it is the forgotten memory
of your hands on mine ~
it sits there
like a grandmother’s hands in her lap
watching the children play
outside
in a street she grew up in

and all this
and that last coffee we had together;
settle at my feet and the sky above moans to fall apart.

i wrote my happiest lines once.
this evening i write the ones that got stuck in time.

in my throat
my voice is a shiver down your spine~
words scattered like
autumn leaves;
fallen from living too long.

there was time enough then.
its shriveled and dried up now.
waiting did that to it.

shall we walk on then?
or shall we watch the moon
from the beginning again? 

…

Dee is from Lahore. Loves old trees, words and surreal nights ~