Yes, we are late.
The sky waits, heavy with unshed rain.
You know how some silences grow longer than lifetimes.
Still, come.
Sit with me here,
where the old banyan’s shadow
touches the water’s edge.
Bring only your breath,
the memory of a firefly’s pulse in your palm,
and the faint, fading scent of champak
on your skin.
Let this be the last stillness—
the moment before the downpour,
before rivers remember how to rise,
before all paths dissolve into the rain.
For the last time,
come close.
Let the world blur,
and leave only this:
your hand in mine,
and the quiet,
just before goodbye.