By Reya Mohammad Raffi
& the silence of my smile
before I tell you how I’m doing
is a summoned narrator
she’ll tell you
of the waterfalls that have
befriended my pillowcase
while I tell you of
a leaked bottle mishap
she’ll tell you
of the angst scrambled
in my notes app
every day
every other hour
while I tell you
that I have been busy
writing poetry
you see, most of what is said
is a facade against what isn’t
the quiet between your words
are reaching for a hand or
serving what you think is not worth
the platter of your voice
is silence the shy death of truth,
or is it the child of grief?
I once believed love
could be formulated
can I make you dinner? can I hold your hand?
will you love me if I love you?
but I learnt love isn’t formulated,
it’s discovered,
nurtured – its’ absence, a shrapnel space
in your heart
her husband’s gone,
but doesn’t she still dip
his favorite biscuit
in her tea?
you could hide, or push
till the ache
tastes sweeter
but
what is left is here
to stay