Words Arwa A.
Header Credits Tasneem J. (@tjphotography53)
These days you could trade for
a yo-yo spinning on tabletop, tracing
maps. Like us, routes counted
by footprints danced.
In our backpacks, a wild palette
of unfettered dreams. Unpolished hands
paint the sands gold; only we are kings
who cannot hoard. We only deal
in light, have made that patch of sweat
and this accidental sunburn our currency.
The sticky rivulets of ice cream sorbet
on my face, your hands, like a lake
escaping the parch of our throats.
Washed away, over the glades,
Suffused with the smallest
Of all loveliest things: the day,
Spinning on its axis, like every other.