Darkness scattered among bodies left behind.
We never knew if we were coming or going
or if anyone would come for us.
We were the lost ones.
Sympathetic eyes mixed with fear and pity
marked our skin, branded us.
Unwanted.
We waited for you.
Waited days. Then years.
I am grown now.
I find you in the weeds.
I see where your breath burned the ground,
where your footprints remain buried under layers of time.
I brush the past with a glance.
I brush past.
You weren’t there
though my mind conjured your image.
There in the corner, see there?
Do you see?
Tear up those white pieces and toss them on the winds.
Maybe one will shoot across the sky, set off a spark,
a wish in someone else’s dream.
Header photograph © Andrew Hall.
Prasanta Verma is a freelance writer and poet. Born under an Asian sun and raised in the Appalachian foothills in the southern U.S., she currently lives in the Midwest. Her work has appeared in Relief Journal, Altarwork, Tweetspeak Poetry, and the Redbud Post. She is a mom of three and coaches high school debate.
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