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Hiraeth

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A tinge of familiarity comes back when the sky bends and indigo seeps in. Then some orange leaks; some blue fades. The hues stack themselves up like the shelf you cleared out for me in your closet because you felt too alone inside. I was half in and half out with you when I said I had to go.
There are nights when I lay on the pile of our outnumbered days wondering about your hands; fragile. So much like your existence. You had been inside for so long that the only thing you had known was flowers growing inside blood bags and the dripping sound of caffeine from your lips.
The dusty closet. You had tried to claw your way out. My so called shelf had scratch marks. Did you want to escape because your nails had started growing back like memories? Was it too cold inside? I knew you did not like in there.
When I took measured steps out of our beings, I told you I won't stop until I reach home. You said nothing. You reeled yourself back in your closet. I had always hated closed spaces, proximity, intimacy; so when I left, I told you I'll go home. I told you to forget.
It has been 274 days. Home is still so far out of my reach. I don't remember the familiar taste or the closeted spaces. Did I let go of my home or did my home let go of me?
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