My shaking reflection on the glass,
Is neither dark nor vivid, rather something in between.
The rustling sound of the half-dried leaves passes the double-decker bus.
The sun has long drowned in the sunflower field.
I'm on my way to meet myself.
As I plug in my headphones, a slow melody chimes.
But all I hear is that one heavy whisper.
All of a sudden, a warm drop of tear followed by another fear,
Falls down on my cheek.
How am I going to meet myself?
I try to gently close my eyes, harshly shut my mind.
The whisper is descending, for now, I believe.
As I'm melting in my half-sleep,
The gloomy clouds gather, wipe away my reflection,
Leaving behind a long-lost fragrance.
I cannot meet myself just yet.
The writer is a student of English at Metropolitan University, Sylhet.