a pressed flower

inside an old poetry note

which i kept for a friend,

now dead.

i buried a cat,

near a naalumani plant.

among those violet flowers

she sleeps, eyes wide open.

a framed picture

of lovers’ feet,

as they are waiting to be touched 

by the ocean tide.

a walk amidst all the chaos

to see

the moonrise.

the mitti attar,

we bought

on our first visit to the crowded charminar,

is still in my embroidered bag,

unopened.

let me forget, gently,

because i still have

a pressed flower

inside an old poetry note

which i kept for a friend,

now dead.