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.
