love is a collage of moments spent

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our window looks in, in the morning, when you are not here;

it missed our looking outside together, in the morning;

it slowly turns away, doves stir on the sunshade

mornings are a-not-so-strong tea without your pinch of crushed ginger;

I read  mails along with tea; they all lack a point of reason;

I return to chores in kitchen as tea turns out a pointless attempt of joy

 love is the hurry-burry of mornings when you collide with me,when I am taking spices from the right-top shelf and you the cups for tea;

love is your lunch box that I pack in a hurry, now it stares at me in the morning

when you return, bring some fresh ginger from the locals selling it at stations;

home is an untouched canvas now, bring it and let us splash some ginger tea

in the morning hurry-burry, and let us mop it with impish smiles and giggles



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