The Window By The Mango Tree

There was a window by the mango tree,   facing west, where sunlight spilled like secrets.   That’s where I waited,   where I last saw you—   not waving, just walking. The curtains danced even when the wind was still.   They remembered your scent   better than I did. I tried to forget the taste of afternoons   without your laugh in the hallway.   Tried to unhear the sound   of your keys…   not returning. The mango tree grew quiet,   like it, too, was grieving.   Its fruits fell without reason—   like how people leave   without explanation. Even now,   I pass that window   and forget to breathe. This is how I remember it:   Not with fireworks or music,   but with silence,   and the ghost of your footsteps   fading into the floorboards   of a house   that no longer knows your name.