Evenings, his hair looked most ruffled,
Pleasant breeze, his smile most loving,
the way she liked, at ease.
In the mornings
Crisp hair, he preferred,
Curt and cold like winters,
Always in hurry to be at some place.
Funny , she mused.
As a child, she saw people often,
were in hurry to go one place and one place only,
Home, they'd call it.
To the people they love, their own.
The books also said, "smells like home", the words she had read once on stairs.
And, she had wondered then,
What is home ? a place where you live,
a refuge, four walls, or a place where you are born?
For her,
His arms had always been a place, she felt most alive in,
His strong arms, her refuge.
The walls bore witness to the thousand things they'd talked about.
She didn't know where she was born, neither she wanted to know.
He was her home, had always been.
The place where she was always running to;
the one she love and loved.
Then,
One cold morning,
He was again, setting his hair crisp,
She rolled her eyes, unsettling,
had asked innocently, where was he always running to?,
"Home", he had said.
- Akansha
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