It is another twilight.
The moazzin belts out azaan like his life
depends on it, an executioner standing under the pulpit,
reaching for his feet.
Orange poppies on a kurta set strewed on the clothesline
hurt my eyes like a lone lamppost on a dark street.
Maybe it’s the faded grey background of the fabric.
The immediate present makes the past seem pale,
even as the two continue to imprint on each other.
I would wait for hours for your nod of acknowledgement,
now, a growing suspicion that you were never a good person.
238.607 miles away, he could be witnessing
forbidden history at my bidding. A bright poppy
blinding me to my ashen existence.
The font in which I scrawl “improve your handwriting”
defeats the purpose.
The grading is endless, the colours are too.
The past cannot catch up with me.