Rice

The scent of Philipp Morris cigarettes

and instant black coffee with sugar in your hair first thing in the morning.

Your arms smell like lemon and the sun

and a long day of work and a long night of love and laughter and fights.

Your neck is just like leather and rum

and roughness and getting drunk and nothing else mattered.

Your hugs are like green tea after dinner and red bean bread

and pink afternoons with the dogs barking and the kids running.

But my favourite of all…

Your lips…they taste like sweet warm steamed rice and home

and thunderstorms on a summer night and grass

and all of the pretty things we ever had.

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