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I write frequently about privileges

The privilege of watching the sky change colors

Or of delighting when the steam from your coffee catches the morning light

I write of warmth, mostly.

Of the small nothings that imprint annoyingly in your memory

Of spices, of teas, of butter soaked afternoon brunches

Of long drawn goodbyes and love that gets pressed between silences

And somedays it becomes apparent why

Why I write of warmth exclusively

Somedays, when its raining outside and its 10:58 PM

And you are warm, moving with silken laziness under your blanket

And the lamp by the corner, is the only sound in the room

It becomes apparent, that warmth is the only thing worth writing about.

The only thing that one would want to fill their memories with

The only familiar feeling that brings to mind the memory as you lived it

Butter on your naan, holding hands under streetlights, staying awake until 5, laughing till you cry, broken crockery and the wounds you bore and inflicted as child.

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