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Poem

A silence falls, swallowed by traffic’s hum,
I let out a sigh, inhaling exhaust and dust.
Her voice cuts through, steady, familiar,
“Which road takes us where?”
I don’t know, I never did.
But I hold the wheel, pretending.
She sits beside me, half-smiling,
The wipers sweep the rain in tired arcs.

Her fingers trace a line on the foggy window—
A habit from when we were kids,
Drawing maps to places we never went.
I take the highway north, grateful for the excuse.
Even now, I’m glad to share this road,
Glad to have her here,
Even for just a little while.

She talks, and I listen,
Holding on to this fleeting forever,
As though time might freeze around us,
But time never does.
We reach her stop. She steps out,
Turns back, waves,
And her smile stretches the moment into forever.
I honk twice, like I always do.
She laughs,
And I drive off into the rain,
Thinking of fritters waiting at home.

A kilometer later, I see it—her tiffin, forgotten on the seat.
Typical. Always forgetting, always leaving pieces behind.
I turn the car around, my frustration softened by habit.

But then I see—
A flash. A crash.
The rain takes everything.
Now, she is silent.
I visit her from time to time.
Her tiffin still sits in the corner of my shelf.
And I am grateful for those dumb conversations,
Grateful for the honk, the wave, the smile—
The only things that are now truly mine.

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