Fruit Stall
By Humzah Farrukh
She asked if I wanted it sliced.
I said no.
I wanted it whole.
Exactly how she once came to me
with hands full
of things she didn’t explain.
That day I loved red.
Red like denial.
Red like your mouth after pomegranate.
I told the fruit seller her name.
She smiled
like she’d never heard it before.
I think nobody has.
You live
in my notes app
In my cupboard,
behind cumin and mint.
I still hear your heels
click against linoleum
two apartments ago.
She asked
how I liked my coffee.
I said bitter.
She sweetened it anyway.
That’s the whole story.
No one warns you
how desire turns domestic
how a ghoul can boil water
and forget to drink it.
I kept the shirt you left.
Not because I missed you
but because it held
the shape of you
longer than I could.
Humzah Farrukh
Humzah Farrukh is a Pakistani-American poet, social impact founder, and UCLA graduate. He began writing as a child and returned to poetry seriously after moving from Canada to Los Angeles. His debut chapbook, Ink Dries Slower When It Lies, explores migration, family rupture, and inherited silence. He currently leads a nonprofit building schools in Pakistan and writes between cities and lives.
Find him on social media @humzahf.