Moon at Half Past Noon

I remember the aluminum patila,
steam rising to meet the voices,
the day’s saag scenting the air.

A child slept against a cousin’s hip,
the bua’s story, a familiar tide.
The walls were not boundaries then,
but the loom on which our noise was woven.

Now, the silence has a different texture.
The quiet click of a lock is a full stop.
Each room a sovereign state,
its light the blue glow of a screen.
We meet by calendar alert,
our words pruned, polite.

Tears are not forbidden, merely unscheduled.
A knock at the door is a skipped heartbeat.
We have maps to everywhere, but no paths here.
The art of the shoulder, the weight shared—
its soft comfort is forgotten.

What if we let a fracture in?
Not for the old crowd, the constant hum,
but for a different kind of quiet.
One that holds more than absence.

What if a need were spoken,
simple, like the weight of a water jug:
“My arms are tired.”
To build not a bridge, but a glance held.

To leave the latch undone,
not for the world, but for a single shadow
on the step, a face in the lamplight,
offering no solutions,
only a presence,
to say the air is softer
when it moves between two people.