A Rusty Almirah May Hold

A rusty almirah may hold

no importance to any,

But it was his favourite.

It belonged to his inamorata.

It stood in the corner

Beside his bed, governing.

The magenta colour blazing

in the dimly lit, dusty room.

Every saree in the almirah,

a colourful page of their life.

He'd run his fingers through

the soft material, gratified.

In his days of strength

He complained, repeatedly

When she stood in front of

The almirah deciding on her attire.

The stickers had decided to

stay longer on the skin of it,

Some scraped and some attached

Each telling about a trend then.

In his claustrophobic life,

The almirah stored contentment.

The key to it too; held a sweet

Monochrome picture of his wife.

He'd sometimes stand still in front

Of the mirror of the almirah

looking deep within as if

He could meet her eyes through.

The rusted handle cold,

much like when he last

held her hand tight with

no absolute warmth or pulse.

Now grey with weakness,

He only wishes the almirah

To stay by his side, making

up for his late wife's presence.

-Umme Ayman.

Nayyirah Waheed, from Nejma

[Text ID: “all the women. / in me. / are tired.”]

Some like to imagine the dark caress of someone else, I guess any thrill will do.

-Hozier

Her coming was my hope each day,

Her parting was my pain;

The chance that did her steps delay

Was ice in every vein.

–Song sung by Mr. Rochester

“Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!”

~Heathcliff (Wuthering heights)