MOHIT MITRA Poet Rhyme

Metronome

Metronome
—Or the Measure of the Heart’s Quiet Obedience—


You stand beside me.
Evening drapes its seal –
A bus exhales,
then loosens from the wheel.


You shift your weight –
the moment takes its cue.
I learn the hour
by lingering close to you.


You glance, then turn –
the gesture barely stays,
yet shapes the way
the silence keeps its place.


Such knowledge forms
through contact, not design,
acquired like balance –
used before defined.


You pause before you speak –
I know that pause.
Not doubt,
but measure, sharper than applause.


The breath withheld,
then granted leave to go –
keeps time
where louder instruments would fail to show.


A metronome –
once set, resists appeal.
It does not plead.
It does not court the real.


Its virtue rests
in what it will not do:
explain itself –
or ask belief as due.


The street grows restless –
footsteps stake their claim.
Some voices hurry
past the thought they name.


Each second strains
to matter more than most,
as though excess alone
could prove its post.


I follow suit –
I order, edit, press.
I narrow hours
to what they will confess.


The day complies –
the cost is understood –
or would be, if I paused
the way I should.


Your hand meets mine –
not warmth, not warning sign –
a brief restraint,
exact as any line.


I feel my pulse
obey its quiet law,
and know, if it were gone –
I’d notice flaw.


If you were gone –
the scene would still proceed.
The dark would fall.
The sounds would not recede.


I would move through them –
competent, intact,
yet subtly wrong –
alive, and underact.


So I do not extol you –
I attend.
I keep the time
that keeps me, end to end.


Some loves arrive –
like weather, fierce and brief.
Some hold the beat –
and let us stay, in suspended grief.

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