Chance

The pride of my small home nestles its fat self in a corner of the couch. It isn’t a cat, though it’s stuffed and squishy. It’s a pillow: brocaded, regal, and esoteric. Two chaste medieval lovers rendered by an expert embroider. Birds hover over them against the black background. Their sumptuous clothes indicate nobility. She is paused with her feather in hand, mid-two-dimensional-air, distracted from her script as he enchants her with his clarinet. They do not speak. Their eyes brim with meaning.Made of threads, they look at each other with the passion of centuries. They do not watch me as I spend innumerable days in ageless quotidian pressed against them. If you look at their embroidered eyes, it’s evident that they dream about each other at night. I suppose their souls must now be living somewhere in another form, perhaps across the planet from each other or unknowingly close, searching for what they do not know, along a lifetime.

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