Red hearts, red hearts float.
The little blush on your cheeks—so red, so bright.
Heart eyes for him. Just for him.
What does the bindi on your forehead hold?
Twirling in your skirt.
The anklets on your ankle—a prose, a rhyme, a story, a song for the observers but an annoying sign of your arrival for the unknown, the lost-in-nothing humans.
Your hair so dark, a veil for the midnight sky.
A worshiper of the jasmine flowers.
Long–forgotten conversations.
Long–forgotten poetries.
Never been a subject of admiration.
The him, a hoax.
The her, unknown to everyone.
Known to none.
Fragments of her exist in some minds, at the very back of their heads.
She walks through the streets, unnoticed by everyone.
