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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