Sukla Singha

3 am

we like waking up at strange places
that smell of burnt rice and yongchaak

we don’t find stars in our skies
and crawl our ways in loose stockings
in supermarkets where men-women-men hold hands
to pretend they’re not lonely
as if trying to learn to walk away from
the shadows of long days that we’d tucked into our sleeves

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