Isha

On this search for truth,

I often remember that you and I were in England together.

I think of you

somewhere in Oxford,

where we stayed, for not long enough

and left, feeling little together.

Yet I am still somewhere there

in the summer of a seven a.m hangover,

of bathroom fog, of shared shampoo, twin beds, of the duvet you brought with you

from another memory,

and always one cup of tea

for two.

You never wanted your own,

so we shared

happily,

our aches for home,

for truth,

a synonym for both.