You know I write to you,
about the things I whisper in the dark.
Sometimes afraid of my own shadow
I tell you, ‘I’m not a brave-heart’
I rather want these confessions to be,
bottled up and thrown into the sea.
I only write to you to forget,
and not for you to know me.
Sometimes I seek your familiarity
I can’t wait to be home
I don’t like to answer calls
I turn my head at every sound of the door
I count my breaths when you call me
only to hear my voice breaking on the phone
I will still call you
knowing you won't pick up.
Because the ringing comforts me
better than the silence does when I’m on my own
My days always end the same
The magic has worn off from June
How can it be ending?
without a downpour or the smell of monsoon?
You know, we might send trash into space
when we run out of room on earth
so, I'm sending mine as well in these postcards
Not hoping for a reply in return.



© Sana Rahman