A goodbye of sorts.

Time's ebbing away,
Each tick of the clock,
Reminds me of how fleeting every moment has been.
Passions eroding away.
A viral dilation to the vessels of my time
Reminding me, what's truly important?

The days drip perpetually,
Present percolating into my past,
We're all still a work in progress.
Banked across the river of time,
Rowing, recollecting and reminiscing.
Lone helmsman steering this boat,
I weigh anchor at the sight of another.

Into the sea of experience,
So vast and serene,
As far as mine eyes see,
From this sunderban, I heed
And spot countless many -
A flotilla of boats,
Each with their ripples and waves,
Nudging my own course.

Cloudy nights with a chance of stars,
Tailoring sails to scale them and beyond -
The flotilla navigates into high seas,
Leaving sunderbans behind.
Each of them catching different winds,
The fleet rescinds.
Alluding to a lonely dream of days gone past,
Actualizing into a sinister, suave collegiate man,
Identical dreams, dreamt alone.
Individual realities, realized together.

The red string of fate binds us,
We lived our lives separate, feeling incompetent,
To notice this invisible red thread at our feet.
It can stretch across the world,
But will always lead us to another.
Entangled frequently with the depth of separation,
Yet never really broken -
The moment we met it was as if destiny had spoken.

Puppets on a string,
Destiny is the master of the game
We are eternally connected,
By these strings fastened around your ankle and mine,
So if you ever lose your way in the night,
You can always remember where to go.
When this life ends and we begin anew, 
I have no doubt that this red string of fate 
will again lead me back to you.

- Rohan Krishnan | Kamal Koushik