You wore a Tulsi thread
around your thin neck,
I put jasmine oil on my wrist.
You draped my tiny shoulders
with a silk sari you bought
from your last trip to Chennai.

We secretly met
between the ocean and the rocks—
a point where all lovers gave out their secrets.
We knew all their nicknames,
just not the one the universe had picked out for us—
I remember the caution
in the evening air
but I was busy overhearing what was never mine.

You promised
we’d grow old together.
You would serve me
tea in bed in exchange
for gurgles and intimacy.
You would nibble my toes
for every time I gossiped.

What I wouldn’t give
just to see you one more time.
Just to tell you some secrets.
To hold your face
in amorous delay,
to place my head
on your beating, weak chest.