Evenings

By Chriselle Fernandes

The sky erupts into flames,
As I sink into the chair,
With tea for me, coffee for you, and
cookies for both.
We talk faster, for leisurely conversations
are idiosyncrasies of youth, which we seem to have
passed—a train that reached its destination too soon.
We talk about everything: chores, bills that need to be paid, unceasing to-do lists,
Things that were not done in time—a continuous
beating in our ears,
Like the monotonous drumming
of a refrigerator in the kitchen.

It is when you crush the helpless cookie in your mouth,
Devouring it whole like a monster,
and its crumbs cling onto your thick, shapely lips for safety,
and your tongue embellishes itself with tiny crunchy bits—
It is then,
things seem to slow down, the humdrum hushed,
And finally, for a moment,
The gold of the setting sun engulfs us.