“If you stay long enough I’ll turn you into poetry. – please stay.”

The pain of inevitable loss should never outweigh the privilege of love.

Dear swimmer, saltwater’s not for sinking it’s supposed to help you float. – float.

I’ll write my secrets in the sand next to driftwood and seashells then let the waves wash them away. Wishing forgetting was that easy. – secrets in the sand.

We make time for the things that matter most to us – I guess I didn’t matter much to myself.

We listen less often because the sound of silence is deafening to us.

I’m in a constant state of finding myself then losing her all over agin. – the cycle.

Silence is a death sentence when your voice can save a life.

Life really falls like gentle rain in june instead it tries to drown us by a sudden monsoon.

I wonder how different the world would be if we all said what we meant and meant what we said? – speak up.

The lord does not wade in shallow waters.

I know your story is hard to tell without choking up or caving in but the world could learn a lesson or two from the one who weathered silent storms. – silent storms.

A bleeding heart takes longer to catch up with the rationale of a busy mind. – emotions aren’t linear.

You can’t blame her for drifting away when you never asked her ship to stay. – abandonment ship.

I like my name better when its tied to yours.

As ocean waves never cease to pursue the shoreline and the sun gives his blessing over their daily union. I’m reminded of steadfast love persistent on pursuing each other. – stead fast love.

Blue green orange red. I could eat all the colors of the rainbow and still see life in black-and-white reruns I’ve watched a thousand times. – rumination.

You know, I can imagine not writing a novel and writing poetry only.

Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

Don’t use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry.

Nobody, I think, ought to read poetry, or look at pictures or statues, who cannot find a great deal more in them than the poet or artist has actually expressed. Their highest merit is suggestiveness.

If poetry does not come as naturally as leaves to a tree, then it better not come at all.

Poetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.

At the age when Bengali youth almost inevitably writes poetry, I was listening to European classical music.