In the narrowing

A Ghazal

Light bleeds gently through the surface, but no warmth passes through. This is what my emotions look like when they are punished for existing. A hand presses against frosted glass, its form blurred, fingers reaching but unheld. (Photo by Gerardo Manzano on Pexels)

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The hand is blamed for wanting, for trembling—in the narrowing.
Breath is begging permission to come out in the narrowing.

I begged for slowness—silence stung in the narrowing.
Who taught calm to wear a uniform in the narrowing?

Softness is footnoted— diagnosed instability.
Hearts are indicted in the narrowing.

The moon watched. Her glow stood trial for only witnessing.
Love is mistaken for threat, in the narrowing.

Jasmine scattered—but no trace survived in the narrowing.
Scentless, even mourning is denied in the narrowing.

Shrinking maps, and time spills out in the narrowing.
The watch blames its hands in the narrowing.

They narrowed the lens—and framed my wanting as confession.
Lips learned to smile for the record, in the narrowing.

Ah, Ghazal, ground me in the refusal of the narrowing.
You rooted; never confessed in the narrowing.

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