the sweetest nectar

You tempted me

with confectionary,

an ambrosia affair cultivating in late September unfolding

from stolen glances and illicit advances.

A marigold jalebi, glacé divine,

for you,

meri jaan.

A stone’s throw away from central bazaar,

past the antiquated rickshaw resting in the begrimed alley,

beneath the idle stand of the deserted chai wala

across from Mr Abbasi’s mithai dukaan.

Cross-legged lovers,

entwined fingertips,

and lips

candied with dew.

The dew is a diamond,

an incandescent oath woven between her joint and knuckle

with whispers of the clearest honey.

She answers:

Yes,

hamesha ke liye.

But after the craving fades,

and she, the chaand, has waxed and waned,

the candle of youth dwindles into a wisp of grey

of wilted flowers and languished hours,

the ripened love runs sour.

As dusk had fallen,

a drop of innocence stolen.

The sacred shabnam.

A moment on the lips,

once the sweetest nectar,

now an unforgivable eclipse.

By Yumna Ansari