Written by Pari Sharma
Stumbling on the dusty brown box
In the attic’s creaky silence,
In the scent of books, worn and fine, opens up nostalgia to simpler times.
The box was a time machine, transporting me into bygone eras,
As nostalgia hits the strongest brick at the weakest times.
Little I was, little were hands, little were feet, and little was dream,
Little was height, little were thoughts, little were views, and little was world.
And there it was, the yellow frame, cracked at the edge, still cradling our smiles.
Her arms around me, like the safest place I ever knew.
A still moment, but my heart beats faster
For love like that doesn’t fade, it just finds quieter ways to live.
I touched the glass, wishing time was pliable, soft and kind,
Just once, to let me step inside, and relive the moments left behind.
Text © Pari Sharma
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