Goodbye takes the form of a
blessing.
My family press tika on our
foreheads
rupees into my palm.
Mountain-high through time
and air
the red paint dries, the
rice grains fall
leaving a trail that could
surely lead us home.
But sometimes you can't tell
what you've seen
until you close your eyes
and the imprint reveals
an inverted world of
darkened brights
and a pale sky
a halo
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