Sunday Poem By Amanita Sen

On the see-saw

On this see-saw with you
it feels strange when I am
at the higher end.

While the hair feels happy
to be patted by the sudden
surge of air the height brings

and eyes smile at the fun,
the transience of the moment
catches up with me.

Like it is unreal, me looking
down at you, “Hey, are you
alright?” I wish to call out.

And when you go higher than
me, I secretly laud this surge;
unnamed goes this feeling.

But most of the time we have
our legs firmly rested on
the grounds, the see-saw is
unmoved.

Or is it not? Is it moving at its
own pace, it doesn’t matter who reaches what end,

only the ride matters, still.

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