By Afra Adil Ahmad
grass-green coat with its fur warming your self-reliant soul,
reminding me of the tint of unripe mangoes swelling on the trees in grandfather's backyard,
and my palm holding the soft fabric instead of your hand
to save my heart from getting lost in this complex park;
your ravishing hands complementing the dahlias they clutched every time we reached here:
textured and layered,
and I, screaming and bugging you: don't pluck these flowers, you're wounding them,
your nonchalant reply: they're not humans;
the stubborn strand of hair that always succeeded in wriggling out of the perfectly braided hair,
spiralling as the breeze would whack you lightly,
and you flipping through stale yellow pages of "our" favourite novel
remarking incomputable times
"i wish i were a character in this novel"
followed by my eye-roll.
it has been awfully long
since we both welcomed the sun together.
my heart is tired of yearning for your euphonious voice,
my heart is tired of wanting to cry but not finding your shoulder by my side,
my heart is tired of longing for your prankish grin that would manage to embellish this messed
up world.
only you carried that power.
this park has everything but you.
today it's not me who notices the dearth of your crazy laughter,
today it's the sun.
what must i tell him?
when are you going to come?
are you coming back at all?
Afra Adil Ahmad is a writer, poet, artist and calligrapher. Based in Taiwan, she holds a
Bachelor’s degree in English Literature. She writes about everything under the sun: from
dark issues of the society to problems faced by teenagers to imparting chunks of wisdom
through her poems, stories and write-ups. Her works have appeared in various magazines
including Iman collective, MYM, Rather Quiet, Ice Floe Press, Olney Magazine, The Malu Zine, The Sophon Lit.
Hot Pot Magazine 