the terrace.

we’re sipping tea from each other’s cups
and playing our eighth round of Uno
you tell me how your degree is a farce
and we talk about our future plans. about how much we don’t know.
the terrace is too dusty but it’s our favourite place
real life is a mess and this is our escape
your eyes crinkle as you flash a toothy smile to the sky,
your hair glows against the evening sun
and I watch. I stare. I make a mental note of this moment;
I could swear I’m looking at an angel. how mundane
all of this is supposed to be
just a regular Sunday with board games and my best friend, I tell myself,
but every trivial moment with you is starting to lodge itself inside of me
and grow out into something else entirely. it feels
different. secretive. intimate.
a bit more of a big deal with each passing moment, god, you
take up a little extra space in my chest every time we meet,
and now you’ve gotten too heavy to hold inside of me.
can I call it love? it feels like the sky could explode above us
and even then I wouldn’t take my eyes off of you.
chutney dripping down the corner of you lips as you stuff your face
with pakodas from our favourite place
I could swear none of this real. not us. not me. not you. how strange
this domesticity, just a regular Sunday in your company
it aches. I hope it never stops aching. crazy
how the world might as well be ending
with the way you're looking at me.