When my grandmother talks about growing up in Old Delhi, during the final years of the British Raj, her stories tend to be selective and rose-tinted —

Read More Brown


Does he even exist?

Lance him through the chest, if you wish. He won’t feel it. You might not, either. So little is solid enough to touch. Drifting inches above the ground, at once weightless and oh so heavy. So tired.

Read More Bastard


I have written too many love poems
as someone who has never held hands and felt
the urge to not let go,

Read More Origami