old friend

on loss and longings in the monsoon

that july

the monsoon light was slow and viscous.

all morning, we tried to escape that wide gash of sky.

in those days      we stopped counting the days.

there was only that dull light 

and then a darkening.            we found other people to love

but we still found each other      there at the corner shop,

next to the sewer that collected floodwater.    we bought 

ginger tea for seven rupees. you held open a caving umbrella 

to light a cigarette.    the mint-smoke rose over the city stench

and you took a drag in silence.  love ends in boredom,

in a tired sigh on the stairs     by the half-shuttered stores, across    

the sunken potholes, where the traffic trembles    and shakes loose 

into sheets of rain. 

---

getting up from the stoop, you looked at me bleakly 

and stamped out your cigarette. i crumpled the paper cup

till it turned hard in my fist.     these ordinary endings

how they arrive day after day.      i think 

i am running out of ways to remember you. 

---

once in august

the sun appeared for a brief afternoon.   we walked down 

to the old university amphitheater and lay on the hot concrete.   

i took photos of you in the shade. your eyes are warm  

and you smile at me slightly.     i hold on to this knowledge

and flip on to my side at night.        i think    

i am running out of ways to forget you.