The sky is turning red and orange,
Time for the sun to set,
For the moon to rise,
The sea yawns, ready to sleep;
We sit on the beach,
My head leaning on your shoulder;
You read to me your last poem,
‘We will meet again!
I will write our love story again!’
Night creeps in,behold!
I cup your face in my hands,
Your lips are cold;
You turn into a handful of sand,
The last poem ends.
Anita Bacha
Illustrative/Photography/AnitaBacha