She put down the novel on floor, as
chirping of morning interrupted her reading. She stared at the windowpanes and
felt warmness of light on her face. It was third night— she was helplessly
sustaining it without sleep. Her eyes got swollen, lips got dry. She cupped the
black mug into her palms, smelled it deeply, that aroma brought reminiscent of
their love for half-cup-of-Joe. She sipped that salted coffee alone, she might
have forgot the taste of her tears but would it ever be possible to forget those
book-ed evenings in the circle of his arms?
- Ankita Chauhan