Do you remember what your mother's hug feels like?

When I write, I want you to feel welcomed. I want you to recall the moments in your life when you felt most loved, most seen and appreciated. When I write, I want you to see what I see — the superfluousness of the complex, the ingenuity of simple things. Your most savored meal, your most cherished song, your favourite person, these things and these people trigger something in you that I desire my words to recreate. 

So when you read me, read me calmly like you are in love with written art, read me softly like my words were hot akara and bread on a Saturday morning, read me keenly like every syllable of mine reminded you of that rap song with lyrics you can't make out — so you search on Google. Search me then. Search through my words and find my heart littered all over them.

When I write, I want you to not just see me but to see yourself through my eyes. For I need not know what your most savored meal is, or your most cherished song, or the name of your favourite person, but I know you have eyes that read and a heart that interprets.

This is all I need from you, when I write.