That Morning

By Srishtika Prakash

The light filtered through

the curtained door of my balcony;

it always finds a way to seep in

through the gaps left in between,

no matter how much I pull the cloth

from one corner to the other

trying to build an impenetrable fort

hoping no one would find me

carrying all that darkness

in the first hour of light.

Yet, it comes through,

dressed in a gentle orange

and a yellow shimmer on the skin;

my eyes squeeze from the opposing force

as my darkness revolts within — irritable,

angry, upset at this intrusion —

it pulls the covers over my head,

I settle in the warmth of my bed;

but again, within — the brightness slithers

through the folds in my sheet left upturned

and my eyes wander to its shine

watching it dissipate the blackness that lies

underneath; my skin now warm

from catching the gold, it calls

out — my icy-black heart it thaws;

the pain stings as I recall,

the emptiness trying to weigh me down.

Oh but that morning — the gold got to me

as little by little I had seen it come for me

through the seasons past spring and summer,

but everytime — poisoned memories had filled my ear,

and I waited and waited for the arrival of a saviour;

none came to rescue, none to comfort,

I lay in doubts and distress of being unloved

as my mind wished for a face —

a person that'd come to save,

and it was when all hopes vanished

and my slate wiped clean of all expectations,

I noticed the golden visitor — visiting my room

everyday — with its shine, it'd lure me a little,

so maybe that morning, I finally felt greedy

for a taste of the light holding so much promise —

I pulled down the covers, bobbed up my head

and there's nothing sweeter I'd tasted I bet.

By Srishtika Prakash