Summer Hostel

A little poem from my days in the hostel during the sweltering month of May...




dead echoes of the night
still linger in empty halls,
my skin aflame under the fan
but mind in cool mountains
of Murree, where hand in hand
we heard our shouts fly back
as white petals danced down

on smiling faces,



now all i hear
tap dance of my fingers
on the magma keyboard
pupils burn over the screen
sun rains embers
creases of my bed sheet
emanates fumes,


with each tick-tock
wind throws furnace bricks
loaded on my chest, as i lay
back imprints its existence
with tears of skin.