The journeys we whiled away. Midnights in the middle of nowhere. Coming home for vacations, in untidy bogies of trains that we had almost missed. Taxis through crowded cities. Soot. Noise. Nausea. The lemon you bought for me. Everything. The pond that housed hyacinth. And how much I wanted one of those. Bulbous purple thingies. Sitting there toe deep in water. Uncaring. Yet in love. Your eyes, intently gazing at the sunlight pouring through the strands of my hair. Or at me. Paper boats, with poems written on them. Floating away. Bringing us closer to the love we always wanted. Bougainvillea, paper thin, red and orange curling around the rusty rungs of the gate that opened to the porch. A dozen summer dresses. And rings of silver, in ancient chests. Moved back and forth to wherever I moved. But never worn. Some gifts from you. The rest picked when I turned seventeen, eighteen, nineteen and twenty. A ring for a year. From the days when hope was a plausible possibility. From the days when our skins were pink and eyes didn't have dark circles around them. When your hairline started where your forehead finished. Now fossilized, and forgotten, those rings stare at me and ask. Shamelessly, humiliating. What have I done.