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I am from outdated pickle jars, and dusty ancestral bookshelves
I am secretly a love letter from dried rose petals, and late night time ice cream
that leaves you with a sore throat
I’m from 19 homes in 15 districts, none of which might be made
“my residence candy residence”
I’m from the fruitful summer season wind, Petrichor’s plea, the intense autumn sky,
spring crimson
I’m from marigold, dahlia, tuberose, frangipani
I am removed from the mountain traces, like large waves rising from the earth
I’m honorably, proudly, from exhausting energy
I’m a wavering religion—disbelief, hope—disappointment
I am from eye floaters and déj-raves, anxious excitements and stupor
I scent of spices, rice morsels and fish gravy, and cussed
turmeric stain
I am from the clumsy photograph body that by no means hangs on the wall
I am from an immature start with an premature soul
I am the unshakeable loyalty of the love that by no means got here again
I am from a spot but to be found
Maleeha Haque is an engineer who likes to learn books and (typically) enjoys writing essays and fiction.
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