Winter was harsh last year. The kind that makes your lips turn white and forget what your lover tastes like.
I have come to accept you leaving, as changing seasons. And today, on the first day of summer all my plants have bloomed again. But that does not mean I have forgotten last winter.
That does not mean I have forgotten writing to you, and then hiding them back somewhere in old notebooks. It’s summer now, but every time I find anything I wrote to you, it all flashes back.
The same nostalgia that I try and avoid every day. In plaid shirts, and when I occasionally win a game on quizup, (only you were much better at quizzes). And especially on days when a mutual friend shares my poetry and I know you must have come across it too. I can only imagine what you would think.
It’s funny because it’s like having Alzheimer’s in reverse. It’s funny, because it’s summer now, but I know I’m not allowed to forget about last winter.


There is a strange wind
that speaks to me in dialects
I do not understand.
Like the whispering willows
in your backyard
There are yellow leaves there
In summer still.
And a pair of robins
perched right upon your
bedroom balconies.
Come slowly now.
It’s a long line.

Have you noticed the way the wind blows?

Have you noticed
how soft does the wind blow today
as if it was sad from an old friend’s death
or just lazy
after a late Sunday nap.
How It makes me forget
even days when your voice was strong enough
to cut through human skin
There is kindness to it and I can touch it
In yellow leaves
falling on the first day of
And whatever it’s motifs might be
It fulfills all of mine.
And isn’t that what humans are about.




You could turn back time to entire centuries ago.
But what fun would that be?
To Love you in the renaissance,
And see you on tall windows.

I could compare you, your tears
To snowflakes on flower petals
they haven’t learned to exist in love yet.
but it looks pretty
so I let it be.

I could love you in the renaissance
but our love would be like
the flowers that have come to love
the snow before they felt the
sting. A sharp sensation.
And what fun would that be?


/i do not know what to call this/


It is hard to remove
shrapnel from your skin
once they bury down as deep
as entire languages
in my home.

Sometimes I can hear my grandmother reciting
prayers in the other
room, her voice has faith
that I will turn out to be like my dad
insisting on fidelity.

She exhales a deep breath
And there is a short wait
Before words come back to me
I try, ‘Maybe we could change some of this.’
But there is no space for revolution,
where her words reside.

There are only veils I speak through.
Muffled voices
My words get stuck in between
My tongue and teeth.
It is difficult to remember the words today
And difficult to stay

In places
That give you such little room.
To be just a little





You walk slowly in the sand
looking down the whole time.
Measuring footsteps
between us.

You look up once
and see me waiting,
You test my patience
in the oddest ways.

But would it really be you.
if you came gently, like the summer wind.
You are the sea breeze,
covered with sand.

We enter our room,
half naked. We must enter the shower,
and clear the sand
it has no place here.


Shahid #2


But shahid,
I have seen all the gardens,
abba would walk to pluck flowers
for his early morning rituals.
An assorted array of colors
for an assorted array of gods.
Abba knew his prayers by heart.
Then why do the flowers refuse to bloom
after you left.
Tell me, did you make them
fall in love with you too?
What did you promise the flowers?