YET.

-AAKRITI THATAL.

Floors of white,
Cold stone.
Colder than this heart I own.

Breeze hitting me, from a direction unknown
Beat me and my life, forlorn.

Melancholia, like the pale yellow stain on my white shoe,
Never ceasing, as the ticking digits on my wrist, grow.

Panes of wood, dipped in green,
Shades of cool, blue, serene.
The images of the green, scarce woods between the green panes,

Reflects the state of me,
pale and mislaid.

The walls of white look empty somehow
Reasons unfounded, like your scattered brow.

A dark figure, appearing as a spot on that plain wall,
Reminding me of your distinct black mole.

The white walls, empty and bare.

Where are You?
Are You here?

Is this a deterring and a tough test?
Where are you?

Are You here, yet?