On a Monday, I thought of how differently things were on Saturday,
and I wish we could have gone back to Saturday
It was dark outside,
and muggy,
and the smell of the slowly rotting Ficus trees was no longer comforting,
only haunting,
The humidity was seeping into my eyes,
and my hair,
and everything in between,
and all I wanted to do was sweat out my fear,
but I could not,
there was nothing left in here,
not even room for sleep,
because I could only see soil in this plot of yours,
of ours
so I listened to the early morning rain,
hoping it would tell me when this would all be over
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