We were rooftop dreamers then,staking our claim on a sliver ofsunset-warmed terrace.Your laughter was the bright, brief flickerof a thousand clay diyas (clay lamps);my trust, the deep, cool lattice-workof the shared balcony. We spoke in a code of futuresmeasured by festival lights,and every promise was a kite-stringheld taut against the pale, evening skyin a market

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