Seven Minutes

By Shireen Rashid

they say the reel begins to spin,

a final show the mind will keep,

the fragments stitched of all we’ve been,

before we sink into the deep.

i wonder if the chalk will stain,

my restless hands, the proofs half-done,

equations humming through the brain

that always raced but never won.

perhaps the sky will split in two,

a cosmos calling out my name,

the stars i traced, the sums i knew,

a fleeting spark i couldn’t claim.

the roads will roar, the engines sing,

comet-fast against my chest,

i’ll chase the rush of everything,

and hope the speed will grant me rest.

a bat will strike, the crowd will roar,

i’ll see him glance, that fleeting frame,

the secret thrill i can’t ignore,

the dream i never dared to name.

my friends will laugh, their echoes stay,

the ones who left, the ones who stayed,

their voices bright, their faces gray,

the debts of love we never paid.

and parents—soft and sharp as glass,

the warmth, the wounds, the years that bled,

the questions that i cannot ask,

the silent things we left unsaid.

the paper worlds i slipped inside,

where strangers knew my heart by heart,

the characters in whom i hide,

the stories tearing me apart.

what if regret becomes the thread,

and every scene a shadow’s call?

if joy forgets the paths i tread,

and sorrow writes the script of all.

seven minutes—brief, yet long,

a lifetime folded, sharp and neat,

i’d beg the clock to right my wrong,

and grant my heart one final beat.

By Shireen Rashid