You are the only one ma, who showed me loving doesn't need assertions of "I love you." You taught me how to enunciate my unique name, how to grasp chalk on the board. And when I came to my senses, I asked you, why the hell you named me after a place. You blushed. Father hushed. Then with grace, you told it was because you went there after marriage. I braced myself, thanked you for not visiting Mississippi. You couldn't get my joke that time. But with passing tick, you realised I was adept at making fun at you as a way to portray my love for you.

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Remember how they were constructing Berlin Wall. You were watching it with chin on your palm. Your thoughts, rusted with her memories from palm to the elbow, traced the outline of her door and you wondered what if the postman had delivered your letter a day earlier, would she had opened it in a different way? You wanted to run away and ask if the GPS in her street still locates latitude of your heart. Now, the wall has collapsed, postman has retired, lock has been changed and you still wonder the same.

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Geometry of your accidental shape resonates with the perimeter of a heartbeat plunged into the wailing ambulance.

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I poured your generosity at all places. And yet you want a separate write up in your pompous appellation. So humble of you. Here it goes. A ballerina waltzed in the skirt of moon, a boy ushered every emoticons to their respective seats. It was a flawless performance. They were about to squeeze the air between their palms , and then, right at this moment, she forgot her moves . It hurts, doesn't it? Oh yes, you don't have a gender. You rant you are an art. So you know, you can't have it both ways. Perhaps you were meant to be flawed in the right way.

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