I died yesterday

With a pen in one hand and a diary in the other. 

The latter's pages were inlaid 

With prints of my curry stained fingers, 

And splotches of tea, 

And smudges of ink, 

And spools of memories,

And streams of ridiculous cravings. 

I fashioned the contents with the loose threads 

I'd been stockpiling since forever. 

Vibrant, prismatic, but half-completed, 

My woven motifs dazzled more than ever. 

The touch of those threads still lingers on the manifold layers 

Of the dead skin that garbs my fingertips. 

Some taut, some frayed, 

Some broken, some adrift. 

I adore the threads and the fragments they birthed,

The friable, the misfits, the black sheep,

For within them are souvenirs I had nurtured

Souvenirs I wish I could still see--

Even if my eyelids can no longer unfurl, 

Even if my nostrils can no longer draw a breath, 

Even if my body is no longer tangible, 

Even if my presence is no longer felt. 

I still keep the contents of my diary abreast, 

From the untouched wish lists to the bitter-sweet has-beens. 

Don't let them fool you, the words in the past tense. 

The mess, that I call a tapestry, is very much evergreen. 

Photograph: Fa Barboza, Unsplash 

Shifa