Copyright © 2019 Nur Hassanain. 
All rights reserved.


If there was an antipode for fireworks,

The reverse of lights & a celebration;

Like happiness, but backwards,

I saw it in the sky on your last day here.

Stillness, maybe. I’ve yet to find a word for how I felt. How I still feel.

My studio apartment smelled empty that night.

Like everything was marinated in contradiction.

The lack of you, & the lack of me wanting you.

March. I double lock the door tonight.

Slip two sweaters on my limp body,

Curl inside a blanket & pick up Yasmin Mogahid’s book.

It’s my last day here.

Boston. The bearer of a handful of my most difficult challenges.

She redefines love, Mogahid; labels what we had as desire, not love.

My studio apartment smells musky tonight. It is not mine anymore.

It smells like moving out & seeing new faces & dreaming of new things.

There are scraps of poetry buried inside my chest like under-developed limbs.

But I no longer rummage through them to look for you inside.

There are fireworks in my eyes tonight.

And in my hand, a cup of sage tea -

& the end of me wondering whether you forgot about me.

20 Child St.