the shape of waiting

it starts with a body dissolving into the neon hum of
an open sign. we keep pressing on the wounds on our
arms and slip from strangers like sweat.
it's been a long while since someone left their name
in a conversation. i mean, we are always leaving, aren't we?
even in the way we kiss—like pulling a thread from the
hem of the sky—forgotten for the next pair of hands.

mother said, never waste rice, so i gathered each grain off
the plate, stacked longing beside the prayers i forgot the
words to. i feel like a prophet with no message, sitting
on curbs, legs folded in the shape of waiting.
the boys on the corner are rolling joints, spitting cherry pits
into the dark. someone laughs. someone else forgets
why they were laughing. it sounds like glass breaking,
or maybe it's the other way around. a woman wipes her son's
face with the hem of her dress, salt blooming against cotton.
a father puts his hands on the table & forgets what they're for.

you say my name, and i don't know if it's a question or
a mistake over another shot of vodka. i say what before i
hold your quiet breath in the back of my throat and watch you
like a child clutching the seafoam that won't stay in his hands.

two startled bodies in rumpled jeans
still learning to belong.

Sreeja Naskar is a teen poet exploring grief, memory, and the complexities of growing up. Her work navigates the spaces between love and loss, the intimate and unspoken, the softness and ache of being human. Her poetry appears and is forthcoming in Modern Literature, Eunoia Review, and Gone Lawn.