i’m reaching. i’m reaching and i can’t touch warmth.
i reach out and she’s cold, she’s frozen in a snapshot of tragedy as
the heart i once had turning into glass,
a delicate and fragile ordeal, that will simply shatter in one drop.
i’ve made that mistake before, the debris scattering like confetti
and it has taken so, so long to pick the pieces up
for it to be held together with sticks and fire.
as i touch, i yearn that the painted smile can fool them all,
for losing her is the last thing i can grasp.
a perfect tear falls down her perfect face and i brush the cold away
the wicked fantasy being too much for someone so wounded.
i paint the fluorescent rouge on her cheeks and take a breath,
as i hope it fools me, the last thing i want is to lose me.
By Farzana Ali