Season
Sometimes when I'm too exhausted of sliding into seasons Sometimes when the summers are weary and tired Sometimes when there is a longing for a smell, a colour I wonder what those winters were like. Like a brief suitcase of untouched memories Like an old album hidden under my mattress Like a concealed note from the favourite lover There hides a season in this unmeasured greatness. Was it my mother roasting popcorns in butter? Was it the ritual of lying under the sun with my sibling? Was it my father who'd make his way to home sooner? A thread woven, cherished in a memory that's constantly tingling. And when I can't fathom the pangs of longings inside my chest When I can't fathom this usual music standing uptight When I can't fathom the fear that's simmering from the cracks I wonder what those winters were like.