Binge

Binge

In the hush of a rainy night,
the telly glows – a favourite programme,
episodes spill like sweet tea,
one after another, relentless.

We sink into the sofa’s embrace,
cushions plumped, a blanket draped,
while the plot unfolds in steady streams,
each cliff‑hanger a tiny invitation
to press “play” just once more.

The clock ticks, yet time feels stretched,
minutes melt into hours,
the world outside blurs – rain tapping,
neighbourhood lights flicker low.

A bowl of crisps rests within reach,
salty crunch punctuates laughter,
the occasional sigh when a twist
leaves us breathless, eyes wide.

When the final credits roll,
the screen dims to a soft grey,
we rise, stiff‑legged, blinking,
the spell of the binge slowly lifts.

Quiet settles, the room breathes,
echoes of laughter linger,
and we smile, a little weary,
content in the simple joy
of having lived, for a while,
inside another’s story.