Rhea Gupte

Hanging on to withered old shirts, memories of our memories, what conversations felt like, what we felt like in those conversations. How our skin felt pressed against cold railings, how evening walks felt in the park, dreaming up hopes and journeys to the stars. How startling the water felt as we dived in the rain, how rusty swings creaked in pain, under our weight, how droplets clung to our tiny bodies shivering for refuge. How we enjoyed the wind, the sun, the cold, the words, the scars. Still on both knees, from stumbling in between, gutters and roads made of tar. Picking up earthworms to put them in jars. Only to be freed by the roots of our rose plants. The same soil where we buried a bird who fell apart. Holding hands in its receding warmth. Making promises to each other’s tears and hearts.