We assume the cold lasts forever.

Unaware of its untimely demise, we opened

its door to a dying ribbon of light. The cooler

had stopped working—like how the charm

hidden in an old film can’t help but prove

its stars dead, its soundtrack now stale.

The beer, refusing to cool, hinted at this

inevitability—or perhaps, at a lingering

uneasiness I could not ignore. 
You reminded me to separate the food.

The meat, quick to spoil, was to be cooked first,

masking its death in a slaughter of oil.

Whatever remained, we left to be swallowed

by the heat, or hidden in the stomach of strangers,

if only to escape the wandering of flies. I wondered

if the eggs were alright. Only when they cracked

would we know if they were rotten, or fresh

like memories of breakfast. Or perhaps, we

could give them another chance? Let the

warmth’s embrace try and hatch them.

Your silence mirrored my cascading questions.

The answer came in the form of fried rice.

We ignored the vegetables for now, though

even the maggots could foresee their fate. 
I open the fridge, expecting the melted ice

to have dried, only to find the spilt seasoning

grieving over their past. How I, too, who kept

opening this door again and again out of habit,

mourned in my many-flavoured grief—how death

somehow let me scent the proof of having lived.

How it let me taste this simple joy we neglected. 
The inevitability of life quickly arranged

with the store for the new fridge’s arrival.

When the porters carried the old one away,

I saw an exchange of souls. How, spurred by

the guarantee, a fridge emptied and sealed

away is soon replaced by one new and

unopened, ready to contain anything.