Pink brushes of rose petals on her bare arms, taste like sugar candy pearl. the sleepless nights, legs folded, sit under the dark crater under eyes.
hands counting moments of past ballads written on crinkled sheets. bloated left cheekbone, hiding a fair smile 'neath the wool carpet. a clichè love story in the needle hole, passing thread of shyness.
potato skin eye, scattered in room, searching incarnation of voice’s once cupboard creaked. deep fried, wrinkled oiled hair hanging like grape curls on the wall of her collarbones. grandma’s lap sleep sound on the hymns of lullaby that afternoon.
“mama! mama!” once echoed the hall. toes moving to-and-fro in search. magnified memories, with tiny roots of a blooming marigold, in the restless garden.
days like ’s melody whispers silent song, that birds chirp during heavy sky gives birth to a new sun. a slight glow of newborn baby, creases glued eyes. and just like some days feel.