• krishnasripada 5w

    Should I make you a habit. Like a cup of morning tea, whose whiffs dance over a sheet of creamy bubbles, unattended, and yet not unfelt, whiffs that sing through the chagrins of a lost reverie, tingle it, one frisson at a time, claiming the cobwebbed cellars of hesitant, petulant idiosyncrasies, with the measured assurance of a breeze drifting over a known path of cobbled stones, from the time it was laid in the harshness of summer, through the times when creepers dilly-dallied through the cracks and crevices that rains had opened up, through the numbness of winters and the uncomfortable exuberance of spring, until it renewed itself of the jingly-jangly layers nurtured by discarded pieces of life from every passer-by and dirt and mud and wind-kissed petals scraped from gardens and lost seasons and unexplored edges.
    Should I make you a habit, drape you around the renewed, cobble-stoned path?
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