your naan bread is my precariat

there is this
feeling
that is actually
a memory
you can taste
or smell
hear out loud
rooted in vision

like this time
i was on a bus
and looked at
its floor
and the gradient
:
the pale blue
with shards
of red
and green
reminded me
of crayons
i had as a child
and suddenly
i could sense
my tongue curl
;
or jerk
or awaken
with a taste
i do not
remember

it felt
like i was
living
a life of
utter precarity
like my own
wasn’t
mine
and

i was constantly
becoming
and unbecoming
with my
memory
playing
cupid
between
who I am
and have been

with a hiccup
in my head,
i order
‘naan bread’
and smile
at the white man
who returns my
smile

as politely

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