The intimacy of knowing how to make someone's perfect cup of coffee or tea.
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Cold weather, but the feeling of the hot cup of coffee in your hand >>>
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Bring me the sunset in a cup.
- Emily Dickinson
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I sometimes think about Shri Ram. I think how his mother titled his chin up to see his smudged tilak.
I sometimes think about Shri Ram. I think how his father taught him their ancestry and how his hands travelled in a path of molten sun rays— like gold.
I sometimes think about Shri Ram. How his Kekayi Maa taught him all about flowers and colours. How his Sumitra Maa taught him all the games she knew.
I sometimes think about Shri Ram. How his eyes welled up when he scraped his knee and how he hissed when his mother cleaned his wounds.
I sometimes think about Shri Ram. How he copied the way his father walked with the reverence of a child with rose coloured world.
I sometimes think about Shri Ram. How his Kekayi Maa danced with him on his birthday, their hair open and done in the same styles. How he sneakily sold his paintings to buy his Sumitra Maa a pair of studs for her birthday.
I sometimes think about Shri Ram. How he was suddenly the eldest. How his father passed the baton unto him and how scorching was the heat of responsibility of being the son of the Sun descendants.
I sometimes think about Ram. A child who outgrew the lap he found solace in. A man who only had memories for guidance.
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“Don’t expect to be nourished by someone whose cup is empty.”
.-Soulinkpoetry
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