By Pratikshya Panda
There was once a word,
hanging at the edge of my tongue,
soft as a moth’s wing,
torn before it could take flight.
I tried to write it down—
but the ink bled,
spilled into the river’s mouth,
drifting toward a place
I could never follow.
I have spent my life
watching things disappear:
lovers slipping into fog,
a father vanishing into silence,
a mother weeping into her own hands,
summers dissolving into the quiet crush of autumn.
I write their names in the stream,
watch them blur,
watch them return to nothing.
My grandmother used to say,
nothing stays, not even sorrow—
but she is dead now,
and I think sorrow has never left me.
The last time I saw you,
your voice was a silver fish,
sliding between my fingers.
You said my name,
and I swear the river listened.
But now, even the river has forgotten.
How many times have I tried
to hold onto love?
How many times have I cupped it in my palms,
only to watch it leak through the cracks?
I have kissed mouths
that vanished before morning,
whispered promises
that never made it to shore.
Tell me, how do I keep a moment?
How do I trap something
that was never mine to begin with?
I dream in echoes.
A hand reaching for me
just as the tide pulls back.
A house I can never enter.
A face blurred by water.
Somewhere in the dream,
a voice tells me:
You were never meant to stay.
Somewhere in the dream,
I am writing your name in water
just to watch it disappear.
And maybe that’s the only way to love—
without the weight of permanence,
without the burden of forever.
Just a moment.
Just the breath between hello and goodbye.
And maybe that’s enough.