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.

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