by Hannan Khan
waving
waving
is it you? or isn’t
it?
or maybe another
shadow?
a trick of dazzled light
I don’t
know who I am anymore.
across the room– but what room?
a hallway? a future?
someone waves back, but do they
wave or shift?
is this a wave,
or folded hand?
but they are looking at someone behind me.
My reflection
is an
echo.
silence
(the woman is in the white dress—
or is she in black?
white black white)
why do I see white? is it
my mistake again?
am i supposed to wave or disappear?
a blink. a drop
of something in the air.
where’s the border? Where’s the line?
who am i? or was it you– no,
you’re here
too, but– wait.
[mistake]
(identity is in the wind
blowing fragments against the wall.)
or is it?
a room within a room.
a hand that reaches out to touch a mirror—
but i mistake it for a
doorway.
why does the face in the glass look like mine?
and not
yet
mine?
unfolded
paper cranes scattered
like names– they slip through
time
&
space
(somewhere)
(the floor is familiar—
but under the floor
the air
swallows
me
whole.)
who’s waving now?
who’s real now?
do I exist
in fragments
caught between dimensions?
Mistaken for a thought we’re
before we left–
before we could wave.
am i the wave
or the one who just disappeared?
(again)
Hannan Khan is a poet and scholar of Literature & Linguistics from Pakistan with a knack for turning raw emotions into powerful words. His work captures moments of love, beauty, introspection, and the intricacies of human relationships. Through his writings, Hannan invites readers to pause, reflect, and view the world from a new perspective. His poetry has been published in Failed Haiku—a journal of English Senryu.