Ankahee

The clocks ticks slowly, I can hear the steady drip of the water in the bathroom. Your skin and bones are fragile, I don’t want to touch them, I don’t want to break you. There are birds outside the window, chirping gaily, I can hear the peepal leaves rustle in the gentle wind. Your breaths are peaceful, I don’t want to wake you, I don’t want to break the spell of your dreams. The t.v. in the room speaks in static, I can hear a lady singing her little child to sleep. Your hair fans the pillow, soft and wispy, I don’t want to change it, I don’t want to change you. The phone buzzes in my pocket, I can hear my fluttering heart and my fast breaths. Your eyes flutter a little, your finger twitches, I don’t want to be there when you wake up, I don’t know if I can move. The syllable of my name doesn’t form on your tongue, I cannot hear familiarity in your voice. You don’t remember me, again. I don’t want to remind you. But I will.