When the night goes quiet
and the Krishnachura and lilies sink into their graves
and softly whisper into my ear—"come"
Will you think of me when my foot is already one step outside the door?
If the meaning to our lives primarily revolves around love
I would be a middle-aged gambler on the brink of announcing bankruptcy
Gambling away pieces of my heart like that in a slot machine
from pouring on a bottomless empty cup
Have I disappointed you with my fragility?
Are my eyes no longer beautiful in the sunlight that pierces through 359 AQI?
Am I still lovable like that day when I was grumpy to myself until fed a BFC burger
when I smiled and all my bare teeth shone back to you
But only maybe the possibility remains
I was never beautiful and you were never the sun
If I disregard the mutual exclusivity of our fundamental disinclination towards pulling our eyes from their lonely sockets and handing them to each other to see the world through
Will you acquit me of all my failures?
And have me detach my arms from around the bend of my throat
I cannot live like this much longer
The illusion in the moonlight lies in its coexistence under the same sky with the sun, just a few hundred thousand miles away from the ground the sun can touch, you will find a patch of grass devoid of sunlight
When moon fades into dawn and when I pass away with it
Will you think of all that I was?
All my love, my incessant monologues on brain rot or Nintendo or scummy corporations—
when the night goes quiet
and the Krishnachura petals and lilies sink into my grave
In your ever-unchanging plane of self destructive solitude
Will you remember me?

A.M. Fahad wants to become a more prolific poet and writer. He is based in Dhaka, and he loves creating stories out of the mundane. Send him tips at amfahad1747@gmail.com so that he can stop falling into slumps every other week.