Abhi (i)

Why?
Why didn’t you whisper goodbye
into the hollow of my leaving,
before sending me off like wind
through an open door?

Why?
Why didn’t you leave me a sign—
a flicker, a trembling light—
to hold me back from your absence
before it became too wide to cross?

Why?
Why didn’t you say it—
let the word break itself on your tongue
instead of turning into silence
that now echoes my name back at me…
why…

 

Abhi (ii)

On days like this, I try
to keep my heart from tearing itself open,
but my eyes refuse me.
The tears stay locked away,
like a box buried deep in my chest
with no key,
no map back to it.

What can I do?
I look around and everything feels heavy with answers,
no one sees clearly enough
to tell me how to fix this.
Maybe it’s not that there’s no one—
Why does my voice disappear
whenever I need help the most?

Abhi… would it have been different
if I had learned how to open my chest
and lay everything bare?
Would someone have stayed—
long enough
to gather the broken pieces of me?
Or would it be worse?
Would they have looked past me,
past the quiet fear—
and missed the little girl
still waiting to be seen?

 

Abhi (iii)

It’s been a decade,
but I still let it slip through my fingers—
right under my eyes,
it melted into thin air
while I danced and sang in solitude.

Solitude… no,
more like a fragile excuse I built with my own hands.
Pain?
It runs through my blood like memory that refuses to fade.
Loneliness?
It sits beside me like a lover that never leaves.
Sadness?
My only child—
born from the weight of my own silence.

Why?
Was it because memory chooses to stay longer in some places than others?
Or because time bends differently around certain names—
giving more light, more seasons, more moments I never got to hold?
Or is it just this quiet fracture in me—
this habit of measuring myself against what I cannot reach or return to?
No…
that’s just another excuse I use to survive myself.

Abhi, I hope you forgive me—
and continue to rest in peace.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash