• tamanna3 8w



    the verdent curtains
    in my room
    admit all the foreign light,
    the opale print on it bloom
    like white roses
    glancing at me
    with straight faces.
    perhaps my window panes
    are more transparent
    than the person inside.


    the mustard walls create
    an illusion of warmth
    but the skin I own
    has grown older
    with time,
    it knows how long
    winter resides inside.


    the clock on the wall
    was the loudest
    of us all,
    its hands sped faster
    than the cars outside.
    now it tells its story
    in sighs every night,
    like a learner of silence
    who lets its family own
    their voices better
    than before it arrived.