It’s the fifteenth day. Feels like fifteen centuries have gone by ever since you’re gone. Your absence lingers in the sheets of paper I hold; in the wild daisies I handpicked and kept, in the lingering fragrance of your perfume on my shirt, in the cold feel of the ring you touched, in that cigarette box you toyed with, in the heat of my skin and erratic beating of my chest. You’re nowhere yet everywhere.

© Rushna Imdad. All rights reserved. Published on November 30, 2016.


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