আপ্নি কি অদের মতন?
yes, my love, আর আমি একদমি মাইন্ড করি নাই।
i am just imagining you. harnessed to that trawler, head-rested on corrugated tin; roof-panels lime with heat by the time you wake up.

josna, from undefeated canon, undoing the stitches that make you want me. tried on the temporary migrations of the earth and it’s rings of fire. spare arms protruding. sheowla distended with expectation. the ghat to an entire town succumbing to the runoff water of an only child.

মিরপুর থেকে কত দূর?
i m sorry but i will try to tell you from the parts i do remember. start at setara, where urns of kacchi are plated every hour. bam pa age onto safety no. 36, or if caught in the office rush, projapoti, blue with the ecosystem of commerce; fatigued at the dotted lines which once followed, Jica detours you onto 60 feet, where you will catch the city at gunpoint—
all rogue at the perimeters of a 16 crore strong trp, on its feet, in ovation, giving the benefit of the doubt to rubel on each of his excellent spells, on each delivery unrooting off stump, on each of his court dates, on each bail hearing: granted on the grounds of national interest.

at vibration the mtcl aisles speed-bump narrower, reserved seats filled by ellipses, by inverted commas, others, tollashi, others parlours in motion, and yet, others parlours in repose.

আর কেউ নাই।
i try to bend my unbendable legs, unhooked of the abstract that came with the body—to sew; sometimes, i start at the outlines. of things already existing. of where i am now, i am drawn to the shrubs, the white roses plastic with thorns. back home, mela red bangles reflect 1:1 onto gold bracelets. aviators jumping bunny-rabbit teeth: a sage en hajj into the marketplace, bending his seat into view of the mahanagar natto mancha: a must see poribeshona in upholding 21 dhara at ease at unnoto momshir. but the lassos of yarn get tiresome and repeated in dead weather i start trying to invent an aesthetic with dried ice, interminably sulking rain and strobe lighting, not the ones at the qasba with fountains as musical chairs, but the ones where excavation yields great civilizations, uncuffable, universal in motif. the ones plucking gate-flowers onto hear tucked behind seldom-seen ears. i try to end in the midst of mythmaking: the uttan boithok with a bashiwalla as the coda.

all the way up to you. the ghit of your lungi, teal with cheque. unbuttoned to the fifth. sawed off eyes fathoming the circumference of my chest, irregular heartbeat tilted to one side. you are caught in the moment, sweat blotting temple like a head-wound: juriye dilo chokh; the imaginations of you seeing me off at platform 6 curling into crushed letters, hands corralling at my hips underneath ceilings arching into lotus petals, but your fingertips lose breath of me at the onset of porjotok season, beginning gradually with the haor as sob story, as the failing harvest, and only then as heartbreak: puriye dilo chokh.

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