Lilies

By Dr Manasi Naphade

The water dripping from broken ceiling you had promised to repair

Sundust breaking in through a half open window

The mark your lips left on the cup of coffee

The half read novel on the table, that you were dying to finish

A dried lily on page 394

A mismatched pair of socks lying on the floor

An apple pie leftover from yesterday in the fridge

The broken glass on the floor from our fight from yesterday,

When I said you don’t bring me lilies anymore.

The wet towel you left on the bed. Again.

The smell of your shower gel spreading scarcely from the bathroom.

My phone rang

A bit louder than usual

It startled and shook me all the same

They say you are gone

A car crashed you

There you laid, in the middle of the road with your office bag in one hand and a bunch of lilies in the other.

By Dr Manasi Naphade