I remember the flowers on
your dress the night you
asked me to hold on.
I still dream of it.
I dream of the chunks of henna
pressing onto my palms.
I dream of your gentle hands,
adorned with the crevices of time.
I dream of my scooter
and the ant that bit my finger afterwards.
I dream of palm trees and lollipops.
I cannot withstand any more pain,
for my longing has become unbearable.
But I have gotten so used to home
calling for my name,
that I became too old to call back.
______
POEM:
JOOD ALTHUKAIR
SAUDI ARABIA
PHOTOGRAPHY:
SHAIMA SALEH
YEMEN