Companion: Middle English: from Old French compaignon, literally ‘one who breaks bread with another’, based on Latin com- ‘together with’ + panis ‘bread’.
Roasty, and salty, I’m reminicising about afternoon classes, drowsy eyes, rehashed drama; disses and peanuts sneaked in.
Sticky, and sweet, I’m calling up humid evenings, sweaty brows, ceaseless discussions on life; time and icecreams dripping through our fingers.
Fizzy, and sour, I’m recalling sunny avenues, talkative hands, passionate disavowal of our exes; men and mango sodas a bit too bad for our health.
Gritty, and bitter, I’m reminded of dark rooms, constricted throats, open wounds; confessions and bad hostel coffee cooling in the air.
Puckering, and astringent, I’m thinking about late nights in your home, shaking shoulders, dirty jokes passed dryly; giggles and your mom’s Kashayam stifled in our mouths.
Scalding, and piquant, I’m looking back at rainy canteens, chewed up nails, warm gaze fixed with biting critiques; care and hot tea that burnt me on touch.
Every person has exactly two things in common. We’ve all got to eat, and we’ve all got to die. But sharing a meal with you, sustaining myself with your presence is to nourish my soul against the ravages of time; The universe bringing us together, piercing through layers in its fabric, making us sit at the same table.
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