Stop Your hand is like the small, white Jasmine, wilting on my stained, gray desk. Stained, my hands. Stained, us. Our yesterday unblossoming, its white juice running down my arm, stopping at my elbow when I hold it to my eyes, my nose, my nose still smelling like Homme. That one moment, still lingering, when I blushed and you didn't stop. Just like your grief, we held, like melting butter, my hand quieting your lips, me, singing your sorrow. -Nazish Nasim
Very gentle, Nazish, very sweet....
D :)
Beautiful poem 🤍 Its been a while that substack algorithm doesn’t deliver your stuff to me 💔