POETRY

the body tells its shadow goodbye

"can i come?"

"no."

"why?"

"because this is the only journey
you cannot follow."

"that's ridiculous."

the shadow laughs.

"i've followed you everywhere."

it begins counting
on fingers
it doesn't have.

"through puddles.

through churches.

through airports
that smelled like oranges.

through every haircut
you regretted.

through the afternoon
you tried to run away
when you were nine."

"i know."

"through every fever."

"i know."

"through every goodbye."

"i know."

"through every time
you pretended
you weren't crying."

"i know."

"then why can't i come?"

the body looks

towards something

the poem
cannot see.

"because there isn't
any light there."

the shadow thinks.

for a very long time.

then—

"we'll invent one."

"you can't."

"watch me."

it untangles itself

from the body's feet

and becomes

a ladder.

a violin.

wednesday.

none of them work.

"i'll become useful."

it folds itself

into an umbrella.

immediately

it begins raining

indoors.

"you're making weather again."

"i'm helping."

it becomes

a coat hook.

three birds

hang their songs there

before winter.

"see?"

"i do."

"i'm indispensable."

"a little."

the shadow bursts
through the floorboards

like a whale

forgetting

which ocean

it belongs to.

"did you miss me?"

"a little."

"SEE?"

"i do miss you."

"then i'll come."

"no."

"..."

"i'll become

something else."

"..."

"anything else."

the body waits.

"a bird?"

"you'll still be a shadow."

"a cloud?"

"a shadow."

"a staircase?"

"a shadow."

"a bridge?"

"a shadow."

"a window?"

"a shadow."

the shadow thinks.

longer this time.

"a song?"

"..."

"closer."

it brightens.

"a secret?"

"closer."

"a rumour?"

"closer."

"a promise?"

"..."

"warmer."

"a dream?"

"..."

"warmer."

"a memory?"

"..."

"very warm."

"love?"

the body smiles.

"so warm

you're beginning

to disappear."

the shadow grins.

"that means

i'm getting somewhere."

"..."

"i'll become

the sound

keys make

inside pockets."

"why?"

"because

you always

carry them."

"..."

"i'll become

the smell

of your favourite jumper."

"..."

"the quiet

between

two heartbeats."

"..."

"your left sleeve."

the body laughs.

"i don't think

that's how sleeves work."

"they've never tried."

"..."

"i'll become

the reason

dogs suddenly stop

and stare

at nothing."

"..."

"they'll be

looking at me."

"..."

"i'll become

that feeling

when someone

calls your name

but nobody did."

"..."

"the missing button

on your favourite coat."

"..."

"the place

birds go

when children

stop pointing

at them."

"..."

"the smell

after someone leaves."

the body is quiet.

"you're already

most of those."

the shadow blinks.

"..."

"..."

"really?"

"yes."

the shadow smiles

so widely

that every crescent moon

forgets

which way

to face.

"then..."

it says.

"i'm almost ready."

the body

doesn't answer.

the shadow frowns.

every mirror

in the house

forgets

whose face

it belongs to.

"remember

the little boy

outside the bakery?"

"..."

"yes."

"he waved."

"yes."

"you waved back."

"yes."

"i waved too."

"..."

"he only smiled

at you."

the body is quiet.

"i know."

"i never liked him."

"you liked everyone."

"i liked them

less."

the shadow kicks

a pebble.

it becomes

a small planet

for exactly

eight seconds.

"remember

when you fell in love?"

"..."

"i remember."

"you disappeared."

"i was right there."

"no."

"where did i go?"

"inside

somebody else's eyes."

silence.

a button

rolls uphill.

neither of them

mentions it.

"when you hugged

your mother—

i was there."

"i know."

"when your father

lifted you

onto his shoulders—

i was there."

"i know."

"when you learned

to whistle."

"i know."

"when you forgot

how."

"i know."

"they all thought

they loved you

the most."

"..."

"they were wrong."

the body smiles.

"jealous?"

"very."

"of everyone?"

"..."

"mostly."

"mostly?"

the shadow

looks away.

"...the light."

"the light?"

"it always

thought

you belonged

to it."

"..."

"i hated sunsets."

"i know."

"you looked

at them

for too long."

"they were beautiful."

"so was i."

the body laughs.

"yes."

the shadow blinks.

"really?"

"you looked

exactly

like home."

for a moment,

the shadow

forgets

to be dark.

"who will stand

beside you?"

"..."

"no one."

"don't lie."

"i'm not."

"you always

have someone."

"not

where i'm going."

"..."

"that sounds

lonely."

"it is."

"won't you

miss me?"

the body kneels.

the grass,

thinking

this is important,

grows

very quietly.

"i already do."

"but i'm

still here."

"i know."

"then how?"

"because

missing someone

has very little

to do

with distance."

the moon

hangs

a little lower

to hear better.

"what if

i become

your memory?"

"you already are."

for the first time,

the shadow

looks frightened.

it tries

to cry.

instead,

little eclipses

fall out of it

and hide

inside teacups,

beneath flowerpots,

behind sleeping cats.

years later,

children

will find them

and suddenly miss

someone

they have never met.

"i'll wait."

"you can't."

"i've waited

my whole life."

"i know."

"then i'll wait

longer."

the wind arrives.

not to carry

the body away—

only

to separate

what had mistaken

devotion

for forever.

the body

takes one step.

the shadow

doesn't.

another.

"fine."

the shadow says.

"i'll stay here."

"..."

"i wasn't coming anyway."

"..."

"you forgot your umbrella."

"..."

"you forgot your heartbeat."

"..."

"..."

"you're still there,

aren't you?"
Author's Note This poem imagines a conversation between a body and its shadow at the moment they are asked to part: one accepts the impossible quietly, the other refuses every rule, bargaining with dreams, rumours, memories, and impossible objects in the hope of staying beside the one it has followed all its life. I wanted it to move like a dream, where furniture can take sides, weather can be upset, and a shadow can throw tantrums that change the shape of the world. Rather than treating death as an ending, the poem stays in the brief, surreal moment before goodbye is understood.
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About the Author Aaranya Rakhunde Narayana Vidyalayam, Chinchbhuvan · Nagpur, Maharashtra, India

Aaranya Rakhunde is a writer from Narayana Vidyalayam, Chinchbhuvan, in Nagpur, Maharashtra, India. This is her seventh piece in Aporia.

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