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By Mydhili R Varma

You live in the matchbox house

On the exclusive corner of the matchbox stack.

Double balcony, north-facing front door, river view, they said,

And you were sold.

You keep telling everyone

What a great bargain this prime real estate is.

You buy the knockoff painting from the flea market

And paint the hideous frame a chic sage green

Because all the statement art pieces you googled

Were arithmetically two zeroes further than your annual salary.

You dust, mop, plug the crevices,

Repaint the statement wall,

Change the curtains with the seasons,

Adjust the living room furniture placement.

On a rainy night you open the window

And lean over to catch the wistful drops on your face,

And you feel stripped to the bone

In a matchbox pile you thought your dreams were made of.

By Mydhili R Varma

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