Even if there’s nothing left, I’ll continue writing here, in hopes she may someday read.
This poem sits under a cold, caffeinated name,
On this blog where the metrics quietly stall.
No longer sent to trigger a screen or a frame,
I leave these verses waiting on a digital wall.
From the Kazakh steppes where the evening quickly dies,
My mind still tracks the hectic Long Island transit line:
The 7-Eleven crossing under frantic morning skies,
The Cybertruck, the cat sticker, the familiar design.
Surely the shuttle continues to roll to Life Sciences West,
And idles at the SAC while the dry air grows cold.
But now when the sudden panic tightens in your chest,
There is no steady phone for your trembling hand to hold.
No Mahmood coffee steeping across a video screen,
No MacCoffee matching the steam from half a world away.
Just the heavy silence of the miles that fall between,
And the ghost of a phrase that time cannot decay.
Yes, “Tum mera sukoon ho” remains the sturdiest stone,
An anchor left behind, though the paths have split apart.
I continue to commit these poems online, untracked, alone,
Like a bottle cast at sea from a fixed and constant heart.
If your eyes ever happen to cross these verses in the dark,
You will find the promise clean, the ink completely clear:
A patient, lifelong watch left to serve as a landmark,
To speak to you – the one person who may never hear.
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