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