Nestled between two shoulders, I fall asleep on a woolen mat too narrow for my girth and too short for my length. The mat is old and moth-eaten, in danger of completely revealing the stained cushion it houses.
I wake up some time later, my fist clenching a key that doesn’t fit the front or back doors, nor the gate outside. And the window sills are rife with moth carcasses.
rheim alkadhi | ريم القاضي 