Featured Image Credit : A female Facebook friend (whom I’d love to have read a story by 11.26pm on a humid Thursday)

How many ladies own the pieces of broken soul that you spotted when you peered beyond the white of my eyes?

It’s significantly harder to rid your phonebook of certain contacts when there are still emotions attached to the numerals, when the first syllable of her “good evening” sets your mind into sprints, when whatsapp display photos seep into early evening dreams.

Sure enough, you watched me rid my waist of fabric just before I crashed into you, and you flinched from the splash of hot water during that joint bath, but it was after that late Sunday dinner, when you heard me tell you stories of weeping over stale pies at eateries and dropping to floors beside hotel room walls after definitive parting texts, that I truly felt naked before you.

Home is not a word that needs to be subjected to complex definitions. For me, it’s the spaces between your toes where I want to hide when it’s 8.37am on a rainy Monday morning.

Oblivion saunters in with a few shades of beauty. It’s okay to have them forget, let the ideas of you fade into sunset, so that the pleasantries ring of novelty whenever they flow from mouth to ear, giving time for goodbyes to be substituted with hellos on memory shelves.

Your eyes are maps, they take me on a journey across fire and water hidden behind warm deep walls. Where blind men saw broken fences, I see a city blessed with contours and a fountain that rains on its visitors when prodded with precision.

It’s 9.44pm, and I know it’s been five years, but I still secretly wish that the D & G sweater I gifted you that Saturday as you packed your small bag is what you squeeze yourself into when the weather tries to be mean to you. Does your playlist still make room for Lana Del Rey ‘s vocals?

You make reference to prayers and ten sets of mantras across whitened beads. You must think I am one to sink without exhausting all avenues for staying afloat and clutching anchors.