She looks at her reflection in the mirror
for the twenty fourth time that evening,
and adjusts the pleats of her saree
for the seventeenth.
Today, she would meet him
for the first time,
"Maybe this time,"
"we can, once more,
become the people
we fell in love with." The doorbell rings,
just as the clock chimes eight.
He stands at the door,
red roses in his hand.
The yellow light from the lamps
makes his eyes sparkle,
and softens the scars
left behind by what was
a bleak resemblance of their love.
There's something about yellow lights.
They make pathos look graceful,
and lend warmth to souls pale,
they engrave trust
in second chances,
and narrate time like a fairy tale. - 25 minutes ago