Perpetual Summer

By Kritika Gupta

My cold, numb fingertips

took your hand on that summer evening

and you traced your cigarettes stained nails

on my rough, calloused skin

which belonged to a body of flowers

and everything art.

but you turned it into something unholy

something which I couldn't even call my own

and now you come back.

back with all your sorrys,

wrapped in flowers and poetry

and everything that concerns me

because you are the only who knows me,

and I don't know you at all.

By Kritika Gupta