I learned bliss
before I learned its name.
It smelled like brine
and damp earth,
coffee warming my hands
a quiet that didn’t ask
to be filled.
It lived where water breathes,
in, out,
teaching the body
what calm feels like
when you stop bracing.
Time passed like tide—
without permission.
Then, without announcement,
bliss stood behind me.
A hand on my shoulder,
warm, certain.
It sounded like my Tata’s silence:
a love that isn’t urgent,
a presence that is enough.
When I stood,
the coffee was cold,
the water leaving.
I looked back once.
Bliss has a name.
A memory without ache,
love without demand,
a place
that is mine.
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