the soft baritone of my father's voice as he sings in our living room
and today we sat in a green field (me and five other girls) and we spoke about flings and stings, and our selfish sisters
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and i'm writing poems
my nails between my teeth, flecks of blue nail polish on my tongue because i found out today i killed a friendship for no reason at all three months, ninety days a blip in time i'm lucky she took me back that she has a kind heart
and my mother is reading a book about the last mughal (she can never get enough of past glories) we fought yesterday but i think we're okay now
(we never stay mad at each other for too long anyway)
she laughs in awe, now tells my father that he sounds good when he sings and he smiles and blushes like a husband should for his wife
i cried today in front of the resurrected friend as i tried to tell her that i was so fucking sorry but she just put her arms around me and i let the words die in my throat
i have a thousand words i want to say to her (all in due time)
i try, but tragically, shamefully i am not very good at the language of my ancestors,
he has a look in his eyes as he reveals it to me
come to show your heart, even if it's a grudge only a grudge come to leave me again
it's strange to hear him talk about lovers in our living room
(who is he thinking of?)
thursday, third of november
soothing hugs, tears of rue, confessions about attachments, the laughter of people i love, the warm meal my mother makes, and the songs my father sings in urdu
someone said to me today, everything is coming full circle
and i'm happy. happy for love, for friends, and for november.
