Sudipta Mishra, Puri, 1 August 2026
Every time I hold a cup of tea,
I remember:
there was a time,
when you sat beside me,
holding my hands
with a promise.
My quiet moments,
small yet reverberating,
breathed life into me.
Sometimes light,
sometimes dark,
between our silences—it held us close to the softness
of what we were.
Now
it’s only the tea
that remains,
and the blankness
where you used to be.
Between sips,
sighs and silence
gather slowly.
I drink it black now,
allowing the bitterness to
grow all over,
as if it could bring back
what will never return.
