are you coming back?

By Afra Ahmad

grass-green coat with its fur warming your self-reliant soul,

reminding me of the tint of unripe mangoes swelling on the trees in grandfather’s backyard,

and my palm holding the soft fabric instead of your hand

to save my heart from getting lost in this complex park;

 

your ravishing hands complementing the dahlias they clutched every time we reached here: textured and layered,

and I, screaming and bugging you: don’t pluck these flowers, you’re wounding them,

your nonchalant reply: they’re not humans;

 

the stubborn strand of hair that always succeeded in wriggling out of the perfectly braided hair,

spiralling as the breeze would whack you lightly,

and you flipping through stale yellow pages of “our” favourite novel

remarking incomputable times

“i wish i was a character in this novel”

followed by my eye-roll.

 

it has been awfully long

since we both welcomed the sun together.

 

my heart is tired of yearning for your euphonious voice,

my heart is tired of wanting to cry but not finding your shoulder by my side,

my heart is tired of longing for your prankish grin that would manage to embellish this messed up world.

 

only you carried that power.

 

this park has everything but you.

today it’s not me who notices the dearth of your crazy laughter,

today it’s the sun.

what must i tell him?

when are you going to come?

are you coming back at all?

 

Afra Ahmad is a writer, poet, artist based in Saudi Arabia. she’s currently pursuing a bachelors in English literature.