Mustafa Tajwar Araf

For all that melts in this month of fallen petals rising, you’re a paperclip, hanging on the edge of my bookshelf, bent into a heart.

Buckets of water I pour on my head; my vision gets blurry./ "The blurrier, the merrier", my mother said.

Years later, when I would no longer live in my parents' room and grow to have my own,/ I would disregard all the hours I had spent by the window staring at beetles hiding.