# Hope Left Hope left today— I saw her go, a silhouette dissolving into the grey of afternoon, her footsteps soft as doubt. She did not say goodbye. She never does. I tried to hold her hand, but my fingers closed on nothing but the memory of warmth. The door stands open still. The rooms smell of her leaving— a faint perfume of almost, of nearly, of not quite. I know she will return. She always does. But for now, I wait in the gathering dark, counting the hours like prayer beads, each one a small stone laid at the threshold between staying and going. The night grows patient. So do I.

September 1, 2020 1 min read By Sushanta Paul

I have hope
to go on living halfway.
Halfway through
disaster and a mind awake.
Anchored in the future
without streets,
with no mirages,
in this rarefied
present that still
remembers how, for example,
yesterday, you dressed in tenderness, my dream of poetry.

I have hope that my dreams
of being will not
smear my cravings for tomorrow in grey.
May your voice
resurrect the memory of kisses,
and may the time of silence tie me
to the one who loves me.
I have the hope of wanting to
live halfway, that every morning
I will be tormented and still,
embrace the effort to move forward.

Hope of living, as if that were enough.

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