Sitting alone

in the balcony

below the midnight sky,


holding a huge album

in my hand,

thinking about the days that went by.

I remember when

I bought it,

the album,

a shiny yellow one

with silver metallic edges

and a minimum of 200 pages in it.

“This would be us!”

I told you, you smirked,

silly, old-fashioned,

hopeless romantic,

you thought.

I open the album, it’s heavy,

heavy with the souvenir

of our happy days.

I struggle with it,

but, the pages start to fall apart,

one by one,

I try to save

my crumbling mansion,

the only place left

where “you and me”

are still together,

still happy.

but it is old,

you see, the glue

holding it together,

has obliterated

its adhesiveness.

my treasured belonging

is now a pile of dump,

meaning nothing to nobody,

but me.

I bend down to pick

the broken pieces

off the ground,

next thing I know is

I am on my trembling,

weak knees.

I hold the album

close to my chest,

very tight,

not ready to lose

the last hope of us.

feeling numb,

unable to feel my soul in my body,

unable to understand who I am,

and that’s when it hit me,

how the sorrow of losing you,

killed every bit of fear

in me

of losing myself.

-Mansi Verma

4 thoughts on “The Album”

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