The day borrows its light from the edge of another day.
I move through the rooms, each one echoing
with a different form of absence.
The mirror keeps my reflection
like a promise half-fulfilled.
I wave, and time folds over itself—
one hand arriving as the other departs.
Outside, the wind gathers fallen leaves,
arranging them into brief alphabets.
I try to read, but they scatter mid-sentence.
I make tea, pour it into the same chipped cup.
Steam rises like something remembering grace.
Even the spoon trembles under its own brightness.
At dusk, I open every window,
letting the light escape without apology.
Nothing here is mine, not even this air
I keep borrowing from the trees.
Vaishnavi Pusapati is a physician and poet featured in over 100 international journals such as The Meniscus (AAWP), BODY literature (Prague), and Roanoke Review, among others. On her journey to exploring poetry, she finds freedom in the restraint of sonnets and haikus and joy in concrete poetry and even black out verse sometimes.
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