Is this you?
Are these your eyes?
The thin hands gripping the swing
Could those be the ones that hold my hand?
Those eyes looking up
And not-so-smiley watchful.
That dress.

In this failed memory of mine
It’s the only snitch that make a remembered ripple in my brain
Your dress. That puffsleeved frock. Not you.
Not the girl on the swing. Not the same watchful eyes.
Just the dress.
Could that be you?

Day 6
(c) Vinitha