all shades of yellow and brown,
fill my ears in the heat of summer,
and in the coldest artic white winters,
with lassi and mangoes,
my mind butterflies in the love that you gift me with,
little envelopes that give glimpses to another reality,
a soft cotton balled pink, buttercupped world,
with gulab jamans and rooh afza’s
oh you,
wonderous woman,
my best of friends,
the one who knows the depths of my demons,
traditional, progressive, futuristic,
Woman,
my grandma,
and I have been preparing for your death,
for a while now,
seems like the sour taste of my tears doesn’t sweeten no matter how much they fall,
mosses have grown where water laid,
now a forest seems to have sprouted,
and still I am not going to be at ease hearing the news,
golden bangles,
and the white sheet,
that I must witness,
and I will pray over your body.
How will I do such things,
I’ve stopped telling you that I miss you,
because I don’t want you to know
the burn I will feel.
and I think you’re getting worse,
you keep saying your head hurts,
and the reason you’re ending the call,
is because it hurts,
and that I shan’t think you’re bored of me,
just that it hurts.
little do you know,
that I am more than aware,
you’ve told me several times this week,
over and over,
and I agree,
as if it was the first time