My pages wonder
Why they're left as blank as the clear night
Why there ain't those heavy clouds pouring down
Or the thunderstorms that often screamed their lungs out.
How do i tell them
Of those gentle hands that caress the owner of their words
Of those warm eyes that can melt all the irons in this universe
Of those silky fingers that plays with every fiber of this being
Of those soft grips that has turned all this words go pudding.
Now this ink can only sync with the strings of those beats
Of the longing that birth out with the miles parting their feet
Of the prayers that flow artlessly for the well-being of their every breathe.

Your's truly,
Zainab.

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Dated: 15/04/2021