The lazy morning light gently caresses her tired acheing body.
She has woken after a lonely night of longing for her lover.
Dressed again in that saree like how she used to everytime he came to her. And how across the night he gently removed all drapes, moistening her butter skin with his kisses.
It would ache, it would oh so much, and yet she would want some more.
He didn’t come last night. Not the night before. And not before.
She is tired today. Her dropping aachal is tired. Her parched skin is tired. Her dry lips are tired. Her waiting eyes are tired. Her greying locks are tired. Her broken heart is tired.
The night aches, but no longer brings him home, neither does the light.