You left this world on the day meant for roses
But you enter every poem I write like petals.

I remember your wallet
holding the weight of rice and survival.
Your royal chair ,reserved for those
who wronged you.
Your grayish eyes
like storm clouds that never broke.
Your plastic slippers you wore year round.
Your words and their weight.

Twenty two years, seven months, eleven days
And my eyes still flood like monsoon warnings
My throat still chokes like a pulled violin string .

Your absence is felt like a civic collapse
A callout like sirens in memory’s lapse.

Reminiscing about you is a habit,
And habits die hard.