The Poem Who Lived

By Tvishaa Vijay

Some people step into your life quietly,

the way dawn seeps in;

not asking permission– but rewriting the sky nonetheless.

You were like that—

not confined to lectures,

but to something larger,

something alive,

a presence that didn’t teach,

but ignited.

You remind me of Keating in Dead Poets,

except we never tore the pages out of our texts;

you tore open something else instead–

our still-sleeping minds.

And we listened;

because even your silences had rhythm,

like pauses the universe insists upon

before revealing its brightest stars.

If letting go feels unbearable,

so be it—

but I will never hold this ending with bitterness.

Because how could I?

You are not leaving empty-handed;

you are choosing yourself,

your passion,

your calling’s unspoken music.

And though the knowing aches,

I find myself rejoicing in it too.

For what greater gift can a student ask for,

than to see the one who lit their torch

walk toward her own fire?

At such crossroads, words fail;

but Dickinson lends me a whisper:

"Forever is composed of nows";

and in your now, we thrived.

In your now, we found laughter threaded with wisdom,

and a kind of courage carved not in stone,

but in sentences.

So go—freely, fully.

May the winds conspire in your favor,

and the world unfold to your steps

like a book you were always meant to write.

As for me—

I will not remember a teacher who left.

I will remember the poem who lived,

long after the classroom fell silent.

By Tvishaa Vijay