By: Devanshee Soni

It’s 3 am, pre-dawn,
air crisp like ironed linen,
but my pillowcase and bedsheet
screaming, with traces of fire
my room, a sweatshop.
I laboriously glide out of the bed,
the choking air hunger getting best of me.
My limbs have gone numb, pins and needles all around.
I think about you and pull out the memories
like ribbons, dripping raw on the floor,
coloured in lavender.
I tiptoe to the kitchen, my clandestine refuge
under-the-radar, off-the-grid,
you were too.
I try to get a glass of water
with my frozen hands, quivering like leaves,
and it overflows, yet again.
There’s a plant on the counter, probably mint
leaves yellow, dry, and brittle.
Inhale,
sometimes I don’t understand
why all my plants die even after getting everything?
Exhale,
sometimes I don’t understand
why couldn’t you have loved me?
I stand in front of the refrigerator light,
heavy eyelids and dark undertones clearly visible.
I stand there for a long moment,
while the mint dies,
the oven light still on
and the water overflowing from the glass.
Inhale,
Sometimes I understand
why I never asked you to love me.
Exhale,
Sometimes I understand
why you never did on your own.