Ticket stubs of hold-my-hand bus rides
Fallen flowers of wait-for-me alcoves
Conch shells of hear-my-heartbeat walks
Green ink letters of smudge-me-into you rooms
Handkerchiefs of wipe-away-guilt trips
Golden earrings of have-me-forever kingdoms
Each of your idols has a temple here
Ceremonial worship and a sweet tear
But that fistful of barely wet sand
poured carefully into my cupped hands
Lies buried somewhere within
and lands softly at dusk on my palms
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