the platform
eternal pausing, the shells
of smoked peanuts
scattered
drips of tea on the stone bench
cold, now
and as I watch the train pull away
dragging a bit of my heart
with each chug
across the littered tracks

 

there are questions
answers I don't need
for now, I'm a blur
a thing-of-the-past
yours, a moment ago
when you ran your fingers
through my hair
as always, your fingers caught
in the tangled ends
and just like always
you left them like they were

---

Geetanjali Chitnis writes from Bangalore, India.