The horizon breaks every moon I rest on its elbows.

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It throws toys at me. Aimed directly at my belly. It knows I can eat clay and live in the shadows of water.

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The horizon screams for attention in its absence. Where am I, it asks while merging with the beginning and the end.

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The label of a writer is the same as any other label- a handwritten sticky note on a repurposed jar. Bring me to the front rows- make me the holder of rice. Alas, to host the reserved stock of cumin, soon to be lost in the pantry.

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The kitchen and the horizon meet in the mind and break over and over. The marble slabs and sea lines crash under this very moon.

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Build me a cradle I ask the world. Assign me a carer. Feed me boiled rice if that is all you have but don’t show me the boats passing by diligently. Going someplace leaving the horizon at its end- breaking in separation.

Drifter; Poet. ‘The Saree Shop’ is my debut poetry collection. https://www.speculativebooks.net/shop/saree

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