Pictures of You

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A lazy Sunday morning, the weather’s dank, my spirits bleak
as I clear the mess that is the crux of my existence
Tucked in a corner is a neat little box
Black, square and dusty – decorated with foxes, kittens and
bearing two tiny rusty locks

Inside there, I see a stack; some trinkets,
a trove of memories and images frozen in time
Old yet their colours to me seem bright and new
Soon, my eyes feel like blades of grass
that nestle the morning dew

Trembling fingers reach out and I see a face
10 months, 11 days and 12 hours; my lips smile as they see you
Bathed in twilight’s creamy purple magic
you’re majestic, vulnerable to my heart that looks distant and cold
A pain rises, at the centre of my chest for I miss
the feel of your cashmere sweaters where my arms would fold

 Like a moth to a flame, my heavy sight travels to another-
the summer wind fondling your face, mixing
The soft, wispy golden dream that formed your hair
With the brown from your eyes that were
Aglow with a fire, that now eats at my despair

4 winters, 3 springs and countless miles
that was the story of us
Oh! How these memories come to the fore
Your laughter, your smile – bewitching, dazzling; flashes again
cutting me bare and bloody to my core

Dulled and defeated, I slump to a heap
next to the glorious pile, that I set out to clean
while a voice tinkles like a nail against glass,
“When my body turns to dust, spent and gone
the scent that will rise, will not be my ashes but
pictures of you.”

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2 thoughts on “Pictures of You

  1. Super-like this one Nagwa, very articulate. I love this line – “Bathed in twilight’s creamy purple magic” and the whole explanation of how the ordinary warms your insides. You’re a very talented poet and you know it!

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