I.every nightyou turn on the lightsin the room he has left behindon another continenthe buys a pack of almonds for memorythey sit unopened by his bedsideand back homeyou are sifting through his clothesnot wanting to give them awayII.the city grows to a handful of pearlsthe plane hurtling to liftas if heaving with regrethe closes the window to homelandand searches for you among the passengersan audience with its face turned away from himIII.in the bathroom mirroryou inspect twenty-year old scarsthe pocket you sewed into his shirtto hold his passport safeis a sutured wound he now wearson all his travelsfrom you,he has learnedthe value of injuryIV.cornered by griefhe plays and replays your voice messageswith the discipline of prayerhe folds your syllables into notesyour soft vowels into songwhile you unseeingly switch the radioback to his favorite channelhis words forming the ghazal you nod to quietlyV.now that we are apartlet us pick some place in betweennorth of longing and south of hopewhere we may meet every summerto hear the crack of dawnto let our hair turn silverwhere I will not guilt youfor wanting me backin the wrinkle of your wombwhere you will love mebut just enoughto let me go