Sometimes I’m seen as a widow whose husband never died.
To them, happy memories are shadows, forecasting a meagre, neverending absence. They delve into my eyes, looking for that stubborn tear which refused to see the sun, and the rainbow in my clothes fades into black when I pass by.
Don’t they know I have never intended to weave a shroud?
However, sometimes, the dirt in my hands is visible—
But that’s only me, burying myself in my lonely silence.