My senses unwrap
like brown parcel paper
tied with a string.

They absorb the smell of
coffee beans and turmeric
and the light of warm brown eyes.

I am home
in a home
which is not supposed to be my home.

Oh, Winter!
You came just in time.
I was just picking up the leftovers from my afternoon tea with Autumn.
I have just collected the leaves
and glued them to the crunchy paper
of a notebook.
I have finishied
labeling them meticulously
with a black
thin
ball point pen.
And the notebook is placed
on a shelf of comfort and laughter.
And I have begun
referring to it as a closed chapter.
Now, tell me...
What will it be?
I see you've brought
delicate, silver snowflakes.
Shall I melt them into the hot cocoa
or shall I bring out the silver tupperware so we can dissect them?
Shall we be dining next to the fireplace?
Or shall we be dining out in the blizzard?
Please do tell me all the stories you carry for this season!

The blue iris melts its petals
like the teary wax
on the musky walls of the lavender candle.

The butterfly crunches its yellow,
crisp thin wings like translucent scales
followed by the crashing echo in the mirror walls of the corridor.

The heat in the air blares in turquoise
somersaulting between the
invisible layers of humidity and oxygen
sticking to the skin like midday sunrays.

Spiraling
                down
                          a pit
                                  of anxiety.

                     When suddenly


                          A

                          f

    ­                      r

                          e

           ­               e

                          f

                  ­        a

                          l

                         ­ l

                    headfirst
                    short
                    sharp
            ­        burst.

                          And then

P     r     o     c     r   a    s    tination
spilled         un   e   ve       nly

           on a tiled bathroom floor.