By Aniket Pathare
On the bench, I sit in solitude,
Watching the leaves,
green at first, now yellow,
spiraling down, one by one.
Birds coo,
their wings rushing,
vanishing into their nests.
The air so quiet,
was warmer once...soft, forgiving.
Now it’s dry, sharp,
pricks at my skin.
The cold is creeping in,
slipping under my coat.
But I wait.
Still, I wait for her,
to sit besides me again.