arrivals and departures

and the true measure of loneliness
is when you realise you have no one
to drive you back
after your hands are painted with mehendi.

and you sit there, on the boy's footpath stool
halfway through the design,
your eyes full of tears, spilling over into your hands,
threatening to erase the fine lines of green,
when the boy suddenly asks
whose name he should hide in the drawing.

tears do not seem to alarm the boy
he assumes there is a wedding,
mistaking my fear for joy.

and when he is done, I sit with him
and watch the traffic go by
waiting for the henna to dry.

slowly
my loneliness forming burnt orange lines on my hands,
a sign that this, too, shall fade away with time.