(◡‿◡✿)

There is a rooftop somewhere. I believe it's in India, but I am never quite sure. It comes to me every time I'm alone. I imagine that this is life after death. A perpetual rooftop, where I am lying on a straw bed and can feel the strain of it underneath my weight as my body causes it to curve inward. My left arm has fallen off the side of the frame and begins to feel heavy from the blood rushing to my fingers. The heat is like a blanket, and I am afraid to move out of fear of disrupting the harmony of silence. But the calm is soon shattered by the squeals of boys in white hats as they burst out of the Madrasa next door, with cricket bats in their hands and their off-white kurtas flowing behind them. There is a rooftop somewhere. I believe it's in America, but I am never quite sure. It comes to me every time I'm alone. I can hear the hum of the neighbour's tractor in the distance. I imagine him bouncing on its back in hopes of cutting his grass to near perfection.