The warmth of the lucid air reminiscent of ripe papaya verging on spoilt. Sweet succulent energy, dripping from skin to lips. A familiarity welcomed in a home tired of unfulfilled excitement. The body breathes when it wants to. Ideas scattered precariously like perennial petals between damp pages of a forlorn book. Long belittled in hopeless vigour. Al dente dreams offering unrealised sentiments. Chastised by papa’s absence. Bruised, an unnoticed negligence lurks.

Shamica .
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