Some lovers die in my poems,
the others hold on to memories engraved on their chest.
I couldn't feel the sky turning golden,
for I stayed too long with ivy rusted over me.
Please picture me in the fields of calendula,
picture me lonely and confused
if it's not remembrance then is it grief? or happiness?
picture me lost with letters burying this city.
My grandmother told me that my braids know the spell of intimacy
curls intertwined with eachother, refusing to break apart.
Grandfather never picked a flower for her, then why does she always wait for him to embellish her hairbun?
Our payal clad feet never blushed at the contact of mogra coming with the skin, 
it was the alta decorating empty and wrinkled flesh.
Neither did we ever smell or see traces of lavender,
for we never loved so or the other way around.
Grandfather always keeps his head down and reads his former lover's stupid letters,
then why does grandmother always serve the fancy food with a sewn smile and freshly plucked mangoes?
Oh how I longed for summer and late sunsets,
bumblebees and occasional raindrops.
Oh how I longed for a silent breeze when the evening prayers used to start,
for that was the signal of my clandestine lover coming to me with a dead hibiscus tucked behind her ear and she would slowly ask me,
"What did you write today?"
I let my hands wander wild and reckless over her symmetry for the one last time,
"The closest friend shall help the bride dress" 
I still have it memorized, salty lemonade in the corner of my lips with a slight taste of vintage ruby lipstick.
The greatest of love stories are over now,
for the lavenders died too soon
stolen kisses weren't enough
lovers don't seal envelopes with letters in them anymore
lovers don't bring flower anklets to eachother with mischievous hands anymore
I could stay silent but still talk to my lover, but she's not here with me anymore.
My city is a lost poet and so am I,
the greatest of love stories are over
for all the lavenders died...

//মাঝে মাঝে তব দোখা পাই
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