The handpicked flower doesn’t know

The handpicked flower doesn’t know it has died….

it still leans into the warmth of a borrowed palm,

still believes the sky is close,

that thirst is only a pause before rain.

Its fragrance keeps speaking,

long after the stem has forgotten its roots,

long after the soil has closed its mouth

and refuses to answer.

Petals rehearse memory, not loss….

they soften, they bruise, they fall

without ever naming the violence

that called it love.

If death is distance,

then the flower is innocent:

it does not measure absence,

It does not recognize abuse,

it does not accuse the hand.

It only fades,

thinking this quiet allure is rest.

Thinking this dusky mist is blessed.

©® Farheen Akter Bhuian Nancy

Time Frame: Jan 2, 8 am, Morning, Tea, Officer’s mess

Reflections

A decade went lamenting for you, A decade spent ranting about you, A series of decade has gone by blaming

Emancipation

Faulty stars in the sky leading to a faulty love story—well, stars were not deformed. It was our own fault—a

Racing Hearts

It was nice to know you. It’s a pleasure to meet you. It’s sweet to kiss you. But it’s horrendous

Addiction

You were not my love. You were merely just an addiction, Talking with you over the phone, Fighting over

Circles

Love was a priority then. Happiness was destiny. But now love is not predestined. Sometimes it’s a mistake. But mistakes

Sabotage

I was standing on the brink of a montage. But you always end up bringing about sabotage! I overcame the

Farheen Akter Bhuian