Amita Nowal

Here I Sit

Here I sit, cold and wet
this breeze, drops of rain I look at.
Like shattering glasses, like broken photo frames
here I sit, crumpled in a corner of an open space.
Gazing somewhere in nowhere, sound of
unspoken words, caressing fingers in hair.
The sweet breath upon me, missing pieces of an unorganized
Mess, faint smile with tears in eyes,
Vague consciousness of unconsciousness.

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