Summer has imprinted crow’s feet under my eyes, .Yet I have aged only a quarter. .That’s was when .I dunked myself—starting with the crown of my head—into the ocean where The southern sun resides, to imprint upon my face its sheen, .rhythm of miracles, and to honour it wi
The air tasted of burnt sugar and broken vows–sweetness clinging to the char. It began with a whisper, then the slow, inevitable searing of what we believed was solid ground.
and for every grave / a firefly burns / and for every grave / Dhaka never learns
Scorching in a way the April sun never was. / Scorching in a way a fever never feels. / It wasn't just grief
Patience, like moss, that grows on red soil. Conversations with friends, like inadequate breakfast.
And I realised: / even in the line to hell, / waiting for punishment, / we'd still reach for chanachur. / We'd still find comfort / in the crunch of survival
This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
I cannot tell you that I want to be intoxicated, inebriated, and stashed away for the rest of eternity while holding your hand at the mediocre fair in the middle of the crowd of ill-mannered school-children who grew up too soon
It said, 'You've brought a return ticket with you friend / Remember, people are not meant to be held onto.'
The mind craves to fly far away. / In the guise of a beggar, eyes wet with tears
The moon is a cheeseball, Cratered, yellow, and huge like your eyeballs
Moving mindlessly and / Etching every alley along the way / With verses devoted to you
For all that melts in this month of fallen petals rising, you’re a paperclip, hanging on the edge of my bookshelf, bent into a heart.
