By A. Perveen

The circumference of my being is a thing so banal, it’s still untethered by the mere possibility of a glance from you.

I am bound to you. Gravity to Earth, moonlight to the sea, and still, this strange craving does not abide. I care not for the moment when it may arise, nor is it the look that matters, be it loving or kind, playful or devastating.

Rather, it is the prospect of this everlasting wait …
No one told me it’s the long in the longing that enfolds, the year in yearning that binds.

“I write because stories fill my head until I let them out.” – the writer

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