Like Haryana dust, my habits 
settle onto my body— hours 
imprinted onto my skin, something 
I can wash off before bed. I turn the day
into an orange— something with neat segments, 
bursting with vibrancy. We share fruits in 
the afternoon and act like it’s the weekend.
In a sun-soaked room, our limbs are tangled. 
When my hair gets caught in your windowpane, 
you are careful— gently twisting apart the knot. 
Learning is a slow entangling— fingers 
and bent glasses and gooseflesh everywhere. 
We’re picking up habits like hair-ties, and 
sometimes we leave them in each other’s rooms— 
to have something to come back for, later in the day.