intezaar.

Perhaps the moon was her beloved's accomplice, veiling itself behind the mist, mocking her patience, a conspirator in her longing. She waits, o, she does. The night stretches like dark, kohl-lined eyes, with barely any stars, offering no mercy, no light to trace her beloved's face.

The wind weaves through the foliage, whispering and conversing with the gnarled branches of the trees, appearing dark against the velvety night sky, as if sighing with pity at her quiet grief and yearning. Her hands trembled, and her heart paced; the scent of the roses was too harsh and bitter, offering no comfort. The night air stings, and the earth beneath, which clings to her feet, is cold and unyielding, much like the passage of time that refuses to turn in her favor.

He did not show up to loosen the braids of her dark raven hair, the ones in whose knots a silent prayer was whispered. The white jasmines in her tresses fluttered ever so slightly, veiled beneath the golden fabric, which lifted with the wind, but there was no hand to steady it.

She ached for a glimpse of him, a stolen moment to etch in her memory, sweet nothings to remember by heart, and for those silent vigils when he gazed upon the moon, and she would watch him.

She cast off her bangles, the pearls scattering across the floor like forsaken stars, their glimmer and beauty wasted on a night with no beloved.

The hour had betrayed her, the moon had turned its face, and grief, like the night, stretched infinite, offering neither solace nor an end to the waiting.