The Third Letter

By Preetham Halwi

The rain descends in veils of silver light,

Soft mist upon the glass, the streets grown still,

The clouds hang low, as though the weight of night,

Has wearied heaven’s hand and stilled its will.

Alone, I watch the world beyond the pane.

Thy name, like whispered smoke, returns once more;

The ink runs slowly upon this waiting page,

Three letters sent, unanswered—still I pour,

My thoughts like wine too long confined in age,

What words remain when silence speaks so plain?

I turn again to where our laughter lay:

A narrow lane, the hum of neon signs,

Thy hair rain-kissed, thy hand not far away,

The clink of glass, the blur of shifting lines—

One fleeting eve yet etched in endless hue.

The dawn arose too soon, too pale, too fast;

Thine eyes betrayed the truth thy lips denied,

Thy hand half-raised, caught between hold and pass—

A parting not complete, a smile that sighed.

I bear that look through all the days since then.

Now stretched between us lies this silent thread,

A bond, a wall, I cannot see through clearly,

Yet still I write, though all be left unsaid—

A voice in ink, that hopes thou still may hear.

I’ll write, and write, until thy words return.

By Preetham Halwi