घुड़सवार

It is not much talked about warmth. We

Talk about country borders, engines, weathers

But a glass of milk is not considered to get

The tiny ounce of attention from us busy

In solving the grand mathematics of livingness.

Maa provided us our separate glasses of warm milk.

Each morning, it is not that I think about it often.

The ritual still continues like forgiveness at

Some unaccounted corner of the cosmos. I

Haven't been a naughty child but inward, yes,

I was. Always the reach for a place that didn’t

Acknowledge a physical mapping. Today when

Maa called for breakfast, I saw the milk losing

The frail heat and something left me stupefied.

It had nothing to do with metaphors of escaping,

But the time-lapse. I didn’t want to change lanes.

I didn’t desire to stay. Whom could I beg to receive a choice.