13 steps up the stairwell,
lead to my father’s terrace garden,
that I count under my breath,
like a hymn.
Every rooftop sunset is a pilgrimage,
every song played on loop in time to the swing,
is a prayer,
Because you offered me your secrets
and your messy stories,
masquerading as some type of love.
Like crushed rose petals from the terrace
garden of my house,
creased into your palms,
blushing pink and dark red,
are words I have heard on sunny days,
tinged with the promise
of happy endings.
Perhaps I heard them,
from a different set of hands
and perhaps with words rearranged
but they are,
all the same.
matching the creaking of the swing.
Because love has become,
a routine stairwell,
a sun that always sets and
a song we play on repeat until we can’t anymore.
Until every high note becomes a
and the bass becomes a low point,
which we wish is where,
this song ends.
So sunsets on my terrace have taught me,
how to press pause before
I get sick of a song.
Taught me how to breathe in the white noise,
of homeward bound souls on the road.
Taught me how to sing,
on my own.
And climb down those 13 steps,
before it gets dark.
I’m lucky enough to have terrace and a dad who adores making it pretty. I do a lot of thinking up there, and sometimes none at all which is a welcome change for someone like me.
This poem is brand new and I am unsure if it is even worth putting up.
But this is a feeble attempt at coming back to a platform I used to love writing for and I guess something is better than nothing.
Thank you for reading till the end.
Until We Meet Again.