Sylvia, don't cry.  
Come and sleep next to me in this grassy field.
Our knees touching like two knobby parentheses
cupping words whispered between us at 3 am.
Vulnerable.
Venerable.
My dearest sister in arms.
And if it makes you happy
we could talk about literature and Gods and good art and tea and faithless fathers and lovers.

Sylvia,  don't cry.
Scream at me if it makes things okay.
Curse at the yellow moon hanging in the starless sky like a gold pendulum.
Break all the mirrors and wall clocks.
But don't run after a train that has already left that foggy station.

Sylvia, don't cry.
Stop scraping the answers to your sorrows off that crusty oven floor.
Go, open the kitchen window.

Sylvia, don't cry.
Next time the phone rings during dinner
Rip out the ******* cord
And choke that soulless *******.

Sylvia, don't cry.
Find a ladder and climb the frigging tree
Stuff your mouth with purple figs
until your belly aches.
Don't wait for them to fall on the ground.
Keep eating.

Sylvia, don't cry.
Slice their throats with your cursive knives
When men say
that a girl poet must bleed on the quill she writes with.
Smear your cheeks with their blood.
Battle paint.
My brave Amazonian.

Sylvia, don't cry.
I know at times
it feels as if your spirit is trying to
climb its way out of your own body
Stop swallowing stones to weigh it down.
Hold my hand.
It'll get better, I promise.

I never used to tell you the names of my favourite places
But I would make them seem so remarkable in your head
That they would become places you couldn’t resist going to
And I was the only one with the map to the location

I never wanted you to know where they were
So that when you came to me, you wouldn’t go to them without me
I wanted to share my favourite places with you
And make them our favourite places

But today, I sent a letter to you in the mail
With a list of all of my favourite places
Because I want you to still get to enjoy them
Even though I will not be there to appreciate them with you

Been with me the longest of all,
Through all tough times,
And every small brawl.

Your sweet ticking sound,
And your elegant black look,
Your metallic cold touch,
Changed my life like a fairy tail book.

O my friend, my lucky charm
How I am gonna miss,
Your warmth around my wrist.

You Served me well,
Always fair,
And just in time,
For a single cell.

The time has come,
It's the toughest of all,
You left me alone,
Gone in a single fall.
        - *The ******

Caste of language and literature to the eye
You embrace the culture of Bodos
The Bodo race in the world to introduce
Sweet stories you wrote
Great race and all of the field to watch
You are the emperor of the short story
The poem of you bikram
Like brush many your creativity
Your poem in the blooming flower
Does embrace thousand poets
You are screenplay writer of Bodo films
You wrote alayaron in 1986
You written for 2002 film songali
Wonder how much of your creation!
Take only your creation
We are lose you!
Just said to me your philosophy
Can human effort and can be successful
Come on friend, let us go to try
Caste and country for advancement

You are my favourite poem

Your words, like wonder, leave me wanting to know more. Words that capture me, make me see, that every sentence is a key. A key to your innermost feelings and desires. Inside each phrase your passion lights fires, and I can't get those words out of my mind.

You are my favourite poem

And every feeling, every rhyme, will surface up in time. Bubbling up from the bottom of your soul, you reach out and fill my heart-shaped hole. And at the start of every word, until your very last line, you've got me caught up in your moment in time, wishing that it could be mine.

You are my favourite poem

Where action and words are not enough, and "I love you"'s are simply poetic fluff. Your words allow me to express the emotion inside my heart and soul, creating the illusion that I am starting to feel whole. You have stolen the words from out of my mind and I find myself wondering all the time, the meanings behind your every rhyme. Then, with a sigh, I realize that I should not try to ponder why. These words, these feelings, they are not mine to own. Alone, I should create something as beautiful as you.



You are my favourite.**

You do so much for me, and you've given me so much to see. Between each blade of grass and each fallen leaf, I will think about the beauty of your soul, and I will take these moments and again feel whole. Thanks to you.