burnt honey

the terracotta stain

as i stand in my kitchen

with hands hovering over the tawa in which i cooked my morning paratha

i see the bubbles in the kettle

and move one of my hands to infuse the water with tea leaves and cardamom

after all, everyone is home.

stacks of unwashed plates in the sink

leaning, like the tower of Pisa

i let my hands drown in the smoke

i quite like the smell of cloves, even more when they're burning

turning charcoal in front of my eyes

while my henna darkens and it dries.

i turn the button as right as it goes

remove the tawa and pull back my long sleeved shirt so it rests above my elbows

i put my hands close to the sapphire flame

the heat makes me feel something

it makes me feel better

burning but better.

'what's the weather today, alexa?'

43 degrees, i hear from the living room

i pour the milk inside the kettle

i take two teacups out , fill it with tea

mix a spoon of ginger and dash of honey

and i pull my sleeves down, purple patches peaking through the translucent cream linen.

i give him the tea

he complains about my henna possibly staining the white shirt

and notices his marks through it

eyes fixated on it, like it's a piece of art

before they're shut;

ignored, like a masterpiece he cannot afford.

he raises his gaze to my face

his iris pulls and his pupils dilate

a curve breaks open a familiar dimple

as he compliments my henna and the tea

even the honey, like i don't mix a spoonful everyday.

i smile, as i burn my tongue on my cup

with a closed fist to endure the heat of the sip

like the one i took not too many cups of burnt honey before.

here, open arms come with a closed fist

just like tea comes with burnt honey.

Marissa Waiz is just another 17-year-old girl from Dhaka who writes by taking every minor inconvenience as inspiration.