promises

to be young again.
to tear through memories
dust them off bookshelves
forget them on jostling metros
knowing there will be more.
youth came with
the promise of plenty.

and then one day
you find yourself
clutching to a torn sari
not entirely sure why
the weight of time
gathered around your waistline.
the dust of bookshelves
accumulated now in the bare crevices
of a mind full of things
with forgotten names.
the itinerary of old days
now rests in incomplete inventories.
and the promise of plenty
comes through
in ways memory cannot comprehend.