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.
Of your presence.
Tucking itself into things.
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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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?
Lady Jughead

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