Gentle
My journal holds a fragrance - a flower pressed between its pages, decaying; it did not have any when the man in mid-20s picked it up from the narrow, expressionless, abandoned corner of the city.
Is it the smell of courage?
My journal holds a fragrance - a man picking a fallen flower from the street, gently; he was taught not to be, when in early teens brought up in a common, ordinary, patriarch house of the city.
Joy Abandoned home gathering dust dance with fluffed curtains when a mouse runs over the piano keys
Follow Ajay on Instagram + check out his poetry newsletter here.