Maybe this is our last summer,
And it’s trickling by like the sands of time,
In the hourglass of life,
Did you know I’m so scared of the word ‘goodbye’?
Have I wasted too much time? No, right?
Even if I have, I can’t do anything about it,
There’s no use crying over spilt milk
And so I silently pray,
To whoever’s listening,
Just give me one more day.
Did it go by too fast?
Did I blink the second the clock disintegrated into ash?
The air was thick with humidity like this monsoon,
Especially in that god-awful cloth of cornflower blue,
And their voices were buzzing around,
Spewing their daily nonsensical variants of sounds,
I learnt how to tune it out.
My eyes latched intently onto the two black hands hoisted on the wall,
Trying to use some make-believe mind power,
To make it go faster so it would end sooner,
When every minute felt like a century,
The world moved ever so slowly.
But now a rotation feels like a revolution,
And suddenly I’m not a teenager anymore,
And before I can say “wait”,
It’s all already slipping away,
And maybe I shouldn’t have stared so hard,
Because at least we were together,
Even when it felt like a century had passed.
Now I’m scrambling,
Trying to find a stable footing,
As geysers erupt from the earth beneath my feet,
Everything seems to be out of my reach,
And maybe I’m fine with the river of uncertainty
That’s flowing above me,
I know it’s selfish,
But I wish they could all stay,
With me,
Because I’m not ready.
And so I silently pray,
To whoever is listening,
Just give me one more day,
I’m not ready for them to go away,
Maybe in this life, I was born to be a tree,
Deeply rooted in one place,
Year after year,
Seeing the colours of the seasons change,
Letting my leaves soar from time to time,
Knowing they’ll come back,
To whisper tales of their travels,
Right before they wither and die,
Fall down to the hands of fate,
In a vermillion goodbye.
And so I silently pray,
To whoever’s listening,
Give me just one more day,
I’m not ready for this season to change,
Or maybe I was born to be a migrating bird,
Always spending half of the year on the other side of the world,
But when I get tired of flying,
Where will I choose to live out the rest of my days,
The nest where I was born and raised,
Or the land where they don’t know my name?
I’m on the edge of a cliff,
I don’t have to look down, I can feel it,
The winds of change blowing against my face,
It’s icy breath, like an armada of needles,
Piercing through the pores of my skin.
I’m on the brink but I’m not ready to let go,
They’ve all made their peace with it,
At least it seems that way,
Yet I’m sitting cross-legged on the riverbed,
Whilst they’re swimming with the flow,
Will I be constantly watching them leave?
And still, be silently praying
For one more, everlasting day?
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