Centred around nostalgia, my heart beats inside of heavy drums - fast, loud and echoing - reminding me of a distant past.
The fragrance of roses from the greens of gardens preened.
The warmth of the boiling milk, and the sweet taste of coconut water from the trees on a hot summer's afternoon.
The chillness of the wet winds through my burgundy strands, airing my young scalp, and the frogs croaking their way through the monsoon nights.
The sound of the rickshaw pulling through the remaining bits of tarmac in front of my house.
The tinkle of the bells,
The speed of a water boat in full throttle.
A dusty pile of books when examinations near,
A little bit of sand between my toes and a lot of sparkly sunshine through the seas.
Salt from the air and the seagulls in search of a fleet - pecking and perking.
A glass jar that remained grey for all those years.
Some sights, sounds and smells are nothing but memories in the ashes.
And they don't die.
Memories, they never die.