घुड़सवार

Wishes birthdays in voice notes, types fhjkllllddd sometimes without a thumb

dried of saliva

Impressed on musty pages of Gods as established as Hierarchy.

I forget when I lost her to ancestors of the Sun,

Suryavanshis*—burning, scalding, fatiguing.

Consciousness of any mass of radiance is hardly ever glorious

like an endowment—what has shone is the plight on skin, melanocytes accruing their hue as debt

collected by pedestrians on the sidewalk, distinguishably present still hardly there

amiability & deity is the brood of combination

One does not come into effect unless the other is not Timeless.

My mother is still living the effects

In a noiselessness behind my back that only honouring can verbalise.

When she wakes, she is quiet like she has heard

something told as fate to tie loose ends with & I am

Perspiring under her—repelling in exposure, if she has chewed out the length

of a verse & expelled me

In typographical miscalculation of possession like a creator

Bored of starvation. Hooking me up with someone more suitable.

(*of caste; this upper-caste title traces its lineage from the Sun and claims a “dynasty” of mythology in its defence)