yesterday I saw you. today only your scent remains. tomorrow, that too will vanish.
you said the ache for home rumbles in your chest. I tried to sooth it with words in the absence of medicine or a plane ticket.
when you left I moved, became an immigrant and I understood what it meant to live without living.
I forgo the mall mehndi, the astrologer on his maroon cushion, order from the pani puri wala a samosa and small talk - for a moment we breach liminality but then I owe him thirty rupees and I go alone, sitting safe from summer heat snack untouched.
I wait for the monsoon and hope you will return for the mangoes, perhaps then I can tell you everything I meant to say yesterday.