On the pillow,
On an old t-shirt,
On the phone’s receiver,
On an empty bottle,
In unexpected corners
Of vacant rooms,
I find you.
Your smell.
Leftovers,
Of your presence.
Hiding,
Tucking itself into things.
Floating,
Soft and light,
Like a cotton ball.
And I keep breathing,
Sucking it all in,
Making it just mine.
And I keep on breathing,
Till it all seeps into me
And I’m full of you, again.
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About the author
Lady Jughead lives and writes in the city she loves and hates, Bombay. Without meaning to and harbouring mixed feelings about it (You’ll see the irony in just a bit), she’s forever wandering in the murkiness that exists between straight and gay, clear and clueless, butch and femme, cute and hot, and genius and insane. All of which leave her with a question that often occupies a significant portion of her cognitive capacity – is she Just Perfect or is she falling fast into the deep chasm of obscurity called Just Average?
