forever in a cup

the owner of my favourite thai place remembers my name and order for the table. she’s fed me there since I was twelve and never fails to make my parents laugh. we demolish the dishes between us with room enough for ice cream on the waterfront: a family ritual unweathered by years of growing pains and independence. same flavour as forever in a cup.

I embrace the familiar with open arms and seek comfort in what could be claustrophobic. infant thoughts and feelings are cradled safely in the blankets on my childhood mattress. take time to introduce my bedroom walls and ceiling to my case of new delusions. I take what I can from fleeting allusions to meaning in dreams I can’t control. sometimes I remember and sometimes it’s all passing water in my hands. the stories mean less every time I try to tell them. I wish we could talk a little more without words.