He is different
A loner from what I hear
No father
He has accepted my ways
I am different too
Ma calls me “toofan” lovingly
I can never sit still
Books bore me
The kitchen feels like a dungeon
My feet always dance
My fingers are usually splattered with paint or ink
He doesn’t mind
He likes me with my hair down
We meet on the roof on most mornings
Sometimes in the evenings
When no one is around
Drying clothes or chili
Just an excuse
We talk between cups of chai or sweet lassi
I read his hand
He reads my eyes
He writes
Possibly draws
I cannot be sure
He never lets me see
I practice my steps
he watches
I paint
He observes
he clicks pictures
always when I am not aware
to capture something, I think
I can tell him anything
Nothing needed to be hidden in the pages
He understands ever sigh and murmur
Understands every step and colour
But even then
He has not once told me that he loves me