like a Sunday afternoon sprawled on a tired beige leather sofa, a black cat purring on your belly / the fireplace crackling to fight the winter chill with whiffs of pine mingling with the hot chocolate cooling on the coffee table / TV characters smiling and laughing and crying too hard while sporting bright-coloured clothes and big hairdos and unnatural curls stuck with hairspray you can still smell if you close your eyes and focus hard enough / childhood, when boredom was a routine part of your week ending / memories, like unpredictable raindrops, beautifying or vilifying long gone instants, images, lives.
(First published in Poverty House)
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