We witnessed from the lens a great distance.
I saw the sea of trees and you said you saw the snow,
or the sun-baked canyon where the river once flowed,
and to hug you, kiss you and bring you closer.
I cooked veggies and chicken for one, and you
some pasta with your friend and an oily tuna can.
It was the same meal we ate for two years straight.
Maybe earning some bucks isn’t tough, but it’s not enough.
I killed all my vile cockroaches before you came,
and shoved vanilla flavoured incense sticks by the door.
A dark chocolate box in the fridge, the spilled green wine stunk the floor.
Yet you hugged me and kissed me and pulled me closer.
When they finally arrived for our leftover honey,
we laid out fine lines of the white powdered poison
to kill the infestation crawling through the holes
of our lonely home.
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Hiten Chojer (he/him) is an Indian-born writer with one foot in the past and the other attempting to touch ground. He writes poetry and prose, often exploring themes of iden- tity, displacement, and mental health. He published his debut book ‘Gods of Anxiety Be Damned’ in 2023.