have yet to digest,
or taste the capacity of this frivelous life,
the awaiting of grief,
like the anticipation of monsoon,
in the depth of heat in lahore,
humidity on body,
on shea brown skin, glinting,
loitering amongst the minutes of many hours,
until it begins to pour,
but yet,
instead all I have is peace,
a light feeling in my toes,
my heart not so crippled,
no daggers setting things aflame,
no cupid to sting and trigger the onslaught of love,
a reminder,
that this is the becoming of me,
a Malang.