It was a half-moon imprinted on page 133
(or was it? Maybe it was just
a semi-circular blot)
Tracing it with the air of
a romantic, wondering…

but we part from love so soon-
The words dragged me forward, and I
paraded past thumbprints in my greed.
With bruised eyes, I lost myself
(Somebody had once whispered in a dream
that my face was dusted with shadows of grief.
It seemed too sad to remember that
It was only me.)

Fifty words in, I found it again:
A dried petal, a rose once bloomed
Its soft skin now crisp veins, trembling
(for my hands were nervous.)
Cracks threading through papery gloom.
(And the romantic spread out its skirts;
Sitting content near a bushel of roses.
The dream was shattered by a corset.)

But the words rose up again, enduring wave,
Entombing its brother;
I answered.

-Sanna Jain
1-B, English,
Lady Shri Ram College


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