By Roshni Verma

The evening arrives not with a sound,
but with the slow settling of dust on windowsills,
where the light turns to amber and then to ash.

We measure our days by what we held,
forgetting that the hands are shaped
by all the things they let slip away.

The rain writes in quiet cursive across the slate,
each drop an unhurried sentence,
each silence a place to rest your breath.

In the stillness between our hurried hours,
memory sits like an old acquaintance
who needs no introduction, and asks for no apology.