lily hills white

la fontaine divine

tasnime,
the first and the only.

she was salted caramel oolong skin, kālō locks of the witching hour (sin already tucked away in her perfect hijab!), arabian almond eyes worth all the accolades, and plump lips forged for the forbidden fruit of eden's garden.

"you can't be friends with people like them," mum had told me.

but i didn't care. i imagined her under the bangladesh sun (more brillant than its own luminescence). she was radiant and abundant of light, āmāra bhālabāsā.

"they're broken people," mother would justify.

i was broken people. i was a chalice of split iron liquid and shattered, stained glass. i was devotion to cruder natures, religion of "lust" (because they wouldn't have known love if it came crashing down on them like zeus!).

"but mum-"

"no, my love," she'd cut me off (āmāra bhālabāsā, you mean).

i didn't believe in god (allah). i didn't want to.

but if i could now, i would say to her; muslim princess of mine:

"bathe me,
in the divine fountain of you,
frolic with me,
in an eden
with no adam."

and i would run, knowing very well they'd catch us, and that spring wouldn't last forever, and that some of the most beautiful things also just so happened to be transient.