It arrives,
as a gaze falling on your face, unfamiliar, for the last time.
It lives,
carving out dreams within the words of a rhyme.
It leaves,
with an ageing gait on a frosty morning.
And dies,
mostly off stage and without a warning.
Nostalgia is a luxury purchased on short train journeys.
Regrets and complaints cost a third.
Hope, meanwhile, is infinitely undetermined,
Since, in some languages, hello and goodbye are the same word.
Vyoma 