Today, something’s a bit too mundane. Like those 12 moles on your body. Those 12 moles are like 12 months. I’ve always wanted to save the year. I’d clench my fist tight, but every month would giggle and
slip away from between two fingers, every time. And when the year would end,
and I’d open up my fist, I’d find that 11 moles had already left. But December would stay there, stuck in between the lines of my palm. Always. It was the December winter in Dilli, when we hugged each other for the last time,
saying our final goodbyes. In that mist, peeking out from your muffler, that December mole sitting on your neck, stayed with me after you had gone. The years end easy, but December doesn’t let go of my hand. Even today.