The midnight hour was the worst.
It always had been
The curtains were not clutched in sweaty impatient hands
The windows never shut hastily anymore
The bed was perfect, not even a single crease.
And the room, it smelled of fresh flowers.
What a pity!
The passion in the room died with their love.
And in its place stood a room a house would be proud of.
But it wasn’t the home of love anymore.
She picked a poet or two or three
But still his words were the only ones she ever saw
She read everything she could get her hands on
And yet his hands were the only ones that got to her
She smelled the worn out pages of her books and inhaled deeply
And seemed to exhale only when he traced his feelings on her
She kept looking for muses in all the classic poetry of the world
And yet, yet she was his muse, the candle in the wind that never blew out.
Her pages remained empty
But she was the poem
Not the poet.
That, dear god that, was him.
A blanketing hug through the night
The crinkle next to your eye when you smile
Endless kisses that make me giggle
And the warmth of your hand on my thigh
Indelible yet invisible to the naked eye
You’ve marked me as your own.
The darkness that engulfs you, welcomes me in
To join us, to throw us together
Deeper in its folds, it listens to our whispers
It hears of our plans and it giggles
Soaks in sunlight to show us a panorama of grey
it keeps us in. and everyone else out.
(A monologue he said, It sums us up he said)
To wake up and know each day that you are the morning prayer on my lips
To wake up and feel you nestled between the stretch of my arms above my head
To wake up and see you hover behind my half shut fluttering eyelids
To wake up and hear you in the rustle of creased bedsheets
To wake up and drink you like the first gulp of water on a parched throat
To wake up and inhale you like fresh morning air with a tinge of few in it
To wake up with you. Everyday.
a daiquiri of desire
a rum of romance
a vodka of vulnerability
a mojito of madness
a wine of words
a martini of moonlit nights
an absinthe of amorousness
a cognac of caresses
a Kirschwasser of kinks
a brandy of brooding silences
a jaggermeister of joy
a sangria of sultriness
an eggnog of ecstasy
an alcohol of your absence
The shiver down my spine
The goosebumps on my arms
The wayward strand kissing my cheek
The idle tattoo of my finger on my thigh
The sleep laden eyelid fluttering down.
And with these
involuntary activities of my body
You possess me
My subconscious notes you down
As you surface like ink under my skin.
(For the one who lies vulnerable with me.)
My words don’t pass muster
Neither does my gaze look deep enough
But your scars still open and bleed in my presence
Those chains tighten around your soul when it flutters
Your secrets fling themselves at me for a hug
Your dark desires are the albatross around my neck
Like a million flowers around a deity
I may be ordinary
And with flaws
But my essence flows into the crevices of your being
And I act as tincture to your lacunae.