No hands held. Yet—
footfalls in requiem.
Earth hums beneath them.

He trails. Watches.
Vermillion silk spills through her fingers,
each fold—a benediction,
each shade—resurrection.

Radios. Lined like relics.
Fingers ghost dials, conjuring static.
Three at home. Yet he lingers.
Lost frequencies, lost years.

Food court air—thick.
"Too much salt."
Yet her fingers—thieves of gold—
steal warmth from his plate.

Flowers.
Nameless.
Still sacred.

She scoffs. He brings them.
Later, hands tremble.
Petals pressed between prayer, altar glow.

Kitchen—
war, worship.
His rotis dense as dusk,
her chai black as omen.
Knives cut too large, voices cut sharper.
Steam rises, laughter spills.
They eat—of hunger, of habit, of home.

Balcony—
where silence exhales.
She hums, porcelain waltzing.
He watches the world unravel,
stories fraying at the hem.
Threadbare.
Yet she would unravel without them.

Night.
Pills pressed into his palm.
She drifts first—breath slow, seabound.
He lingers—
memorizes rise, fall.
His fingers—finding hers.
Light. Familiar. Home.

Then—absence.

Tea—one cup, untouched.
Flowers fade.
Food court—loud, empty.
Radios mute.
Balcony still waits.

Some nights—
air quivers, hush of leaves.
A whisper, almost.

And just before sleep devours her,
her hand searches—
not for emptiness,
but the ghost of his touch.

Because even in dreams,
he promised—
"I’ll find my way back to you."