The Silence of My Voice

Hello. There are memories that will easily collapse in the palm of your hands occur sporadically. And, how beautifully brittle are these things? And, how easily these things make you hopeful for more of these evocations? And, isn't that the purpose they serve? To create genres of hopes to have us eternally believe in magic happening? There's a memory for me, of contentment and, of woe. I've never felt placidity that rivalled the one I felt each time I was home, all by myself. Prior to that, I'd never fathomed just how enervating a mechanism it is to make a house feel like home. It is, truly, just another feeling. There's no modus operandi that to take place. As evolved beings, we always compensate for lack of normality with objects. Not until I emptied that apartment, did it dawn on me that I hadn't found the need to add in a lot of compensations in it. It simply grew on me, and turned into a home. I can unambiguously point the definite moment when that ha...

And then the window illuminated with goldenness, The curtain danced all shades of orange, Sometimes, changing the colour of my sheets, And at other times, the tint of my tresses, Sliding deeper in the quilt, But just enough to treat my eyes, With the love light made with my room,  Its warmth felling through under the window,  Spreading in the room, and me, Which tingles my toes,  And tickles my waist, Warming my hair,  Like the hands of a lover holding your head, Revel in it, soak in it, take it all in, Like a breath of you,  Under the brown autumn sky. The laziness to abandon the cosy crippling you, And the doorbells constantly ringing for milk, But lay there for another while, just, As I will, For how many mornings have you created, When you woke up for yourself, And took the sunrise in for yourself, For how many nights have you survived through, To sleep only to those few moments of dawn, Like a mother, sw...