Sunday mornings

Aesthetics , coffee stains and mornings

A random Sunday morning,

I pull the curtains away.
The morning rays bathe
my puffy skin,
eyes avoiding the light.

I turn around,
tying up my hair,
tangled already,
getting more tangled than ever.

The messy table.
I turn my bag inside out.
A bunch of receipts fall out.

I remember that day,
our favourite coffee place.

But I look at them again,
the colour left on my fingertips,
the cute drawings you drew.

“Aesthetic enough?”
you asked.

“You know I’m a good painter,
yet you love my silly doodles
more than the sketches I made of you.”

You complain in a way
that makes me smile wider,
and you pull me close again.

A library card among those chits.
Every favourite book of yours,
I’ve read them through,
trying my best to understand you.

Slowly thinking
how stupid it was
that I was willing to become
a girl from your favourite stories.

Looking in the mirror,
I see I have changed a bit.
The plotline took a twist
the moment you walked in,
a lilac shirt and a coffee stain.

I have its Polaroid,
but it doesn’t contain my laughter
or the way you looked at me.

That little square could never hold
the depth of your eyes,
my silly laughter.

I hear the door open,
and there you are again,
wearing a shirt
with yet another coffee stain.
-K