fruit flies

I did my hair today like how I used to when I was 14, and I felt the neat plaits turn sticky with the dew of my thoughts. There is nothing unhonorable in still chewing on the pulp of old memories, when old memories are not all you have left on the dinner table, you know. Most days, the past haunts a seat at my table when I come back home at night. I despise her harsh reignitions of lived time, but I’ve begun welcoming her with warm coffee and a biscuit for her to chew on as she speaks like an uninvited gossip about old lovers and friends. You see, I don’t despise her company anymore. Like sisters done bickering, like time done passing, like rinds of tangerine eaten by fruit flies. Regardless, I see her out more kindly now. And sometimes - just sometimes - when the present and future lie drowsy and asleep in my bed, I kiss her softly before I close the door.