Nubisha Rabya Topote

I miss those spring days when the sun lay on my skin

If every leaf that falls is a memory you’ve forgotten, then let my ink become rain— so you might remember how it felt to grow with me.

I train myself not to meet their eyes— those begging at corners,

This cracked, restless earth beneath our feet— granules of memory grinding,

A quiet, seniority in its touch, / A tenderness that feels like it's meant to last