Thick

On days like this, when I'm restless, I want to run- a distance I'm incapable of surmising. On days like this, I wish there was somewhere to go to, without wanting, without being discovered. On days like this, my lines are as monotonous as my days.
They're like a house-wife's routine.
What does a housewife do? Days begin with the stove, and tea bags and milk boiling off the utensil, because you forget to turn down the flame. You're too occupied elsewhere and you forget that milk when left on too much heat, just boils up and over- off the vessel. It's a bit like loving. Too much loving does that to you too. It boils, burns you over and drains you. But you know, the thickness of milk when it's boiled for too long; its thickness is like a comfortable moment in bed from your childhood days. Thick, melting and clinging to your palate long after you have gulped it down. Again, a bit like love that stays with you forever when its thick, thick, thick. 
So the housewife drinks down the milk, and begins to chop, shop and everything else she must be doing in her day, while the bland-sweetness of milk intoxicates her, making her betray everything else that's her daily dedication.