Two Yards

And then after months of separation, sometimes starkly felt and sometimes just indifferently fleeting, there we were, as if waking from a long sleep, again, back together in a room. About two yards apart. The view my location allowed made the tip of her nose look fairer. It marked the beginning of minutes held together by strong impulsive emotions, washing up the crookedness of a few dry waiting arid valleys. The nose shone in white and made way to the curve of the cheeks to its left, made profound by the bulge of the round cheekbones. One eye was visible, blinking now and then, attentively focused on the lecturer in front, adding a curious aloofness to the fairness of the face, its glowing tenderness, and the radiation of a half-baked charm. A beauty that takes its time to sink in you, slowly and slowly, allowing the leisure of details, yet confident of devouring victory. With its soft roundish curve, the nose ends to form the smooth whitish space that rides a sharp slope towards the dip of the lips. Pink, bright, bold with a natural tinge of rouge. The imagination of which sets you wild. I closed my eyes and released my breath. Flushed with warmth and its soothing rage, I noticed it all together, the singular eye, the left of the nose, its fairest tip, the tender cheeks and the unsettling, pursed, slightly moving lips, all taking a hide now and then behind a few lingering strands of black-brown hair, the fan overhead making them rapidly sway, as if nervous to decide on their best positions beside the face. In all their years of service, they know, beauty rests all on their performance. Obliging with the slightly-tilted neck and gravity, the hairs on the left chose to hang loose, ending just beneath the neck, hiding most of it, before the beginning of the arched back. From time to time, parts of the guarded neck showed in whimsical glimpses, fair and curvy, yearning for the feel of warm fingers, disturbing its warm covering, gently, slowly, repeating, lasting a forever. You’d then take your eyes gradually over the curve of the shoulder covered by the short feminine sleeve of her white cotton top, and find again her skin, bare, embellishing her arm, running all the way down to the fingers, smooth, the upper part fairer due to longer sleeves worn in the past than the bottom. The naïve pull of the tender skin, my eyes that have traveled and touched, my heart that resounded in deep distinct beats, a feeling that was rising and deepening like the ticking of watch. The simple bodily beauty, bereft of and beneath the fabrics, forming a piece in whole, thronging for touch, my eyes that have memorized that, my heart that beats fast. In the space between us was nothingness, empty space and no abstract existence; just my being overcome by flames of longing and hers, sitting quiet, unawares. Two worlds, disturbed and calm, two yards apart.

July 26, 2016

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Image Source: www.india-forums.com

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Moths To The Fire

The talking was short, the fire was lit for the moths,

Pauses breathed of craving, us pulled and pestered by Silence’s gravity,

Longer rose the flames of warmth, two naïve souls

Trepid at the doors of Love,

Muscles fought Desire, Desire battling Morality,

And when eyes found home in eyes, and our lonely skins could no longer hide,

That night, I loved kissing the silence on her body.

 

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(Nov 19, 2015)

Vacated

Man has always lived by emotions. To not emote was just another emotion. They change, men change. And we travel from one to another, in a day or in a less definite period like we travel from one room to another in a house. The mindscape readjusts some colours, and a new room houses us, lending our minds another form.

But just sometimes, we memorize a series of emotions to a set of stimuli in such a way that they become not rooms, but a house. Giving our beings as macroscopic shelter than microscopic shades. Give them long enough, it becomes who were are, and wandering through the city, we always remember the way back to our houses, houses that have now turned to homes.

And just rarely, sitting at a table, looking at a VDU, on just another of ordinary days, we are reminded of our old shelters. Who were we when we inhabited them? Who were we in its shelter? Who were we in a past we now have kept safe as a memory, guarding consciously against every tide of Time? And released by an unforeseen stimuli, the mind races back, leaping years and spaces and send us knocking at a door, a door that once belonged to our home. A old home. Deserted. Untouched. Unoccupied. And we beat on furiously at the door to set another foot, just another, in a place that was once ours. We beat on, and on and on. In pain, in vain. There’ll never be another response.

Where are you, My Love? How far?

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