Moon at Half Past Noon

We were rooftop dreamers then,
staking our claim on a sliver of
sunset-warmed terrace.
Your laughter was the bright, brief flicker
of a thousand clay diyas (clay lamps);
my trust, the deep, cool lattice-work
of the shared balcony.

We spoke in a code of futures
measured by festival lights,
and every promise was a kite-string
held taut against the pale, evening sky
in a market we swore had no closing time,
only dawn.

Somewhere, the municipal whisper
arrived on the dry wind.
We began laying out silent, careful inventory
without looking at the shared shadows
beneath the streetlights.
Your silence became a curtain drawn
against the distant, celebratory fireworks-glow;
my solitude, a fountain of dry, tangled marigold vine.

We called it space, a quiet way to breathe,
but the shared air was thinning,
a slow-moving Metro line
inching to separate terminals.

Now I am an auto driver alone,
on a route that carries no memory of two.
Your name is a dismantled kirana (convenience store)
on the map I redraw with a steady hand.

I breathe the sweet haze of agarbatti (incense stick)
and the dry, festive dust of my own
hurried momentum,
standing at this new flyover’s edge,
watching the distant towers—
learning the slow, sweet curve
of just me.