the sun shone through white petals, this morning, and i remembered september - by the gardens, in her baking heat. that was the afternoon that i had screamed at you, while you walked away. home, you had said. 'i want to go home.' i have to go home.
as you left, my fingers reached for my silver pendant. i rubbed it, softly, to the sound of the door slamming. that was, i think, when we first broke (like glass, shattering, like waterfalls, like blood) - between footsteps and fingers.
(it's raining here, now. the raindrops are making patterns on my window, and my fingers tell me i've seen something.)
(it is one in the morning, the day has not ended. by two i am scared. sleep will not come.)
such a strange thing, love is. i wonder that i don't go mad, some mornings, and that i don't stay sane on others.
grey skies remind me of karachi's misty mornings. orange neon reminds me of drives by the beach (without you). red brick reminds me of parting, and rain of making love to you.
this morning, still asleep, my fingers touched the hollow of my throat - looking for dull silver.
it's been long enough, i think. i think that i'd like to see you, a. i wonder if you still live by the lake.
- between footsteps and fingers -