Her Time

it’s her time, she can feel it,

and like a brittle church-bell chiming on a Sunday morning, she could hear it.

She was that sweet girl,

Calm like the breeze, and coarse like the  wind when she called to your devotion,

weightless sweet-nothings, she fell for,

like a child falling to the teetering of a bouncing castle,

Fun yet puzzling.

Not ready to see the world without you,

she stumbled for a grip with a strip.

She was the girl who left without leaving a note, and never wasted her time burning bridges,

realizing that they would deteriorate at the absence of her footprints.

Her time is here, she can feel it like a rage,

Stronger than your abode.

And she won’t let go of this new dawn.

She would hold it close, nurture it and let it blossom.

And no one would take it away from her,

not even you.


Don’t say she loves no love.

Rather, say she loves true happiness

and she found it in

living her dreams.

©Chinasa Afigbo

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