Winter is, and always has been,
a matter of farewell. I have always left
before the cold could consume me,
left behind others to endure it,
and all I know of their chill
is their sad smiles
as they wave at me.
Airports, train tracks, bus stops
are all fair game. They are
all equally cold to me, but not
that cold.
I am terrible with farewells;
no warmth of embrace, nothing
but the itch to push on
because the past is the past
and the future has not yet hurt me.
I often wonder when the winter
will take those I walk away from.
Solemn caravans of well-wishers
receding back to where they belong,
and I to where I don’t.
And I say goodbye just like
I have written these lines:
in haste, garbled speech that
massacres me only after
it is released.
Armaan is a student at the University of Edinburgh. His writing has been published in HIMAL Southasian, The Book Review, and ALMA Magazine.
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