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

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

It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else

Something you may... You may never find again.

My love always arrived wrapped in silence, wrapped in dust. But that was childhood.

We will make meaning out of the holes in the sun

There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights

I am not a single name. Not a single wound.

Grey chips of rough cement  Rust rubble all around,

This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,

So go in peace, be free, be kind.

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 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

A quiet, seniority in its touch, / A tenderness that feels like it's meant to last

You thought you had escaped, didn't you? / Outran everything that weighed you down

Sometimes at early dawn / You overpower my eyelids / And won’t let me wake up

Who do I tell, sir? The walls do not listen, The roads do not answer back