Start with the last things by Christ Keivom (21, India)

I have a photograph of that night. 
You’ll see in it what you’ve already memorised inside.
Where I’m writing this there’s a thunderstorm 
from my childhood been beating against the window.
Outside, this morning a person stood under the streetlights 
so garish and loud that the second person 
not too far away looked like 
the unfinished shadow of the first.

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You can fill that in.
You can call it. 
Our hands from two different worlds, joining?
Sunsets. Moonrise. How terraces hold us. 
Memories cross our minds like planes 
But never do leave or land. 
It's love to fall from the sky and still be falling.
I found you. The way darkness tells itself 
about the origins of light.
And did we talk about God? I think we talked about God.
Did you kiss me with a past instead of the future?
I remember that too. (The phone rang in your leaving).
Listen, I have a photograph of that night. 
In it you will see love: the moon 
hung loose from its shaking.
Night: an endless vocabulary of darkness.
Someone looks up and the whole world is spelled out. 
And at this very moment:
Everyone’s thinking of someone.  
Everyone’s writing about someone. 

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