The ink was withered,
but the bruises were etched forever.
The creases could be traced to his grip,
impressions faded.
Scanning every stroke, her eyes paused.
“I’ll wait for your reply…my num”,
the paper lost its better half at the field.
Since then she waited for a miracle.
Recollecting love,
how a soul of a foreign land rescued her,
who knew to a soldier, his duty came first.
But a glance he took with him.
One heart he left for her,
For a reply, the wait hung forever.
Helplessness kills her each day.
His unknown assumptions breaks her each day.
All combinations she had tried,
Might be hope; but love never died.
That land no more existed,
Her steps lurch towards him,
all more she knew, a path that led to him.
Under the deep sky,
a memory runs thousand times.
Longing crept like scent in the hands that held the petals .
Prosopagnosia slowly dissolved the image.
All that stayed, a burden,
Burden that was light and heavy.
Burden of his wait,
Burden of her reply.
A word she uttered to her people,
all instructions came in a wheedle.
Only tears left in support,
when the world falls short.
A day and a night more will pass.
She fights like her soldier again,
Hiding deep, all the pain.
She surrenders against her will,
To fulfil duties like a soldier of a foreign land.
“The groom has come, rush fast.”
Leaving the better half, carrying the burden, she closed the drawer and fulfilled the command.
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