The sky is heavy with the salt of Arab seas, Leaning down to drape the Marine Drive in gray lace. Waterfalls of local trains splash past our knees, As each passenger searches for a familiar, glowing face.

On the concrete overpass, we stand in neon light, Dripping umbrellas, sharing half an inch of dry floor. Your shoulder brushes mine in the cold Mumbai night, We are two strangers staring at the sky’s open door.

I wanted to ask you where you carry your dreams, When the rain washes the dust from corporate glass. Underneath the static, under standard blue-tick themes, We count the quiet seconds until the double-decker pass.

A city built on islands of silence and sweat, Connecting seven hearts that never quite align. The monsoon falls to make sure that we never forget, The warmth we left unmailed behind the station sign.