The Next Encounter

My shaking reflection on the glass,

Is neither dark nor vivid, rather something in between.

The rustling sound of the half-dried leaves passes the double-decker bus.

The sun has long drowned in the sunflower field.

I'm on my way to meet myself.

As I plug in my headphones, a slow melody chimes.

But all I hear is that one heavy whisper.

All of a sudden, a warm drop of tear followed by another fear,

Falls down on my cheek.

How am I going to meet myself?

I try to gently close my eyes, harshly shut my mind.

The whisper is descending, for now, I believe.

As I'm melting in my half-sleep,

The gloomy clouds gather, wipe away my reflection,

Leaving behind a long-lost fragrance.

I cannot meet myself just yet.   

The writer is a student of English at Metropolitan University, Sylhet.