The day keeps shedding its fine dust.
By evening it has settled on everything
I thought I had finished remembering.
The earlier self does not return.
It lingers like handwriting pressed into paper
after the ink has gone.
The streets continue their small urgencies.
Someone laughs. A bicycle passes.
The world has no reason to pause.
Yet sometimes a stranger looks up
long enough to recognise not who I was,
but the outline left behind.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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