Honey.

Romance novels are birthday cake and life is often peanut butter and jelly. I think everyone should have lots of delicious novels, romance or otherwise, lying around for those times when the peanut butter of life gets stuck to the roof of your mouth.

This month, you are my cake and my peanut butter- what are the odds?

Here’s to reading to you as the last rays of a late afternoon flit through from under the curtains in your living room; the light gleaming off my fingers like honey- a tablespoon of it mixed in warm water every morning before breakfast and right after kissing you. Lemony lines cast rhomboid bar-codes on your floor, as I rest my head on your shoulders and sound alphabets that somehow string together to make words as beautiful as incandescent, ethereal, as beautiful your name. In the years that you weren’t there with me, I found photography. Sunlight lent such a softening edge to the world. It drenched everything in a warmish glow. With time, I mastered the art of not squinting when the sun shined directly in my eye. The trick is to stare long enough for your pupils to constrict so that you don’t tear up. So when you walked into my life again, against the sunlight and in your silhouetted glory, I knew how special this photograph would be. Time suspends itself when I am with you like dust particles against light. I notice and realise that the alternating light and dark lines of illumination on the floor of your room are only changing shape because the Earth, unlike time, hasn’t stop moving- just like my world; which has been spinning ever since we met for the first time several birthdays ago. You came into my life like the light streaming in through your windows that windy afternoon- a flamboyant guest, not waiting for an invitation- making itself welcome in a house that it is far too comfortable with. Like routine, the light scans for changes around the room and finds your familiar skin. Your chest moving up and down, with a rhythm that was immortalised in its memory. As it traced the edges around your shoulders the light reflected off my hair. Something different- this isn’t how she remembers you- and almost like a jealous lover, she hid behind the curtain for a while gauging my affection and earnestness for you. After a few minutes, a breeze billowed the curtain away from the window and coaxed Light in to your room again. A couple pigeons flew out. The ruffled noise of their wings made you stir as I turned to the next page. The light caressed my body like oil on water- touching but never mixing. It tip toed around you, careful not to let you in on the secret of the warmth that was radiating from within my body, careful to not make you aware of how I was taking her rightful place. You turned around to kiss me on my forehead and in that moment, time was infinite and the light, insignificant. I love you. How I wish that sentence would be a grammatically correct palindrome.

Happy Birthday, my love. I look forward to afternoons which last a lifetime and a life that is filled with lightness, dreams, fruit cream and blueberry discoveries.

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#104: The geography of my tongue (part dos)

Nerves tingle
Electrons jump
Neurons spark
The taste awakens
My senses
The chill goes through
And reaches my brain
In a warm summer’s night
In this cold clammy routine
Cold caffiene
It registers
The taste buds alive
Around the glass
Dipped inside
Swimming for more
The fix.

Soft lips wet and wanting
Parted
I find my way
Through your gate
And enter in to find my friend
Together we play
Dance and explore
Tickle the palate
Brushing against
On this cold icy day
In this warm fuzzy place
Senses aware
Eyes closed shut
Chest heaving
Sweat beading
The first kiss.

Recall the digits
Dial the number
Hang up and re-check
Mouth dry
A sip of water
A nervous ring
The salutation
The roll of your name
The movement
Of utter grace
And sensuous sound
On a rainy evening
In this drought of emotions
“Can you hear me?”
A crackling
After a moment
“Yes, love”
The word.

#102: Tarmac, Leaves and Whispers

                What is sexy, then?

Your voice.
 
And there’s a light breeze here.
And a leafless tree is hiding the full moon.
It wasn’t cloudy a while back.
The night watchman in the alley beside my window is blowing his whistle like he always does, tapping his stick in a rhythm; a cadence. 
And the dogs are barking, I can see them but they aren’t loud.
It is all so mellow. Soothing. The kind of night when you sleep well.
 
                I love your painting.

Painting with words?
I’d paint on your bare brown skin
Draw alphabets with the very words you love so much
My fingers touching your clavicle. Going through the shoulders and reaching your back.
Slowly, I shall spell out the words, while the dogs bark distantly.
Your winged scapula arches backwards in sheer ecstacy as I write.
Words, such a turn on.

And as I tepidly inch closer to the words that you want impregnated on your body,
I sense carnage in your mind and warmth in your body.

I spread over your being like oil over water.
Never becoming one yet like
A painting of light with its nonchalant beauty
Reflecting, bursting, beaming with the million colours that we know of
We make a

                Painting, with words.

Words, such a turn on.

One new word.

“You make me feel happy, like one would feel before vomiting butterflies.
The stomach lurches, it churns and I feel uneasy and shifty, if I may say so. And then, it begins to hurt. It hurts so much that I feel pleasured. Long ago, I had read that the pain and pleasure centers are the same in the brain. See? Even God knew how much we love being in pain. The pain gradually magnifies and I know that it will happen any moment now. I rush to the nearest window and inhale. Deep breaths, one after the other. Fresh oxygen. I had also read that most of the air we breathe in is actually nitrogen. We believe in so many lies. And then, precisely at that moment, a host of colourful, patterned and beautifully delicate butterflies fly out… no, burst out of my mouth. Her eyes squinted and hands moved.  You make me ecstatic. But, this love is extremely painful. It is so revoltingly attractive that there are times I want to bring you closer, entice you, seduce you and kiss you so deeply that you bleed. I want to leave you gasping for air, fearing that your life might end and yet, you would be asking for more. You want me, and only me at that moment and all I want to give is what you ask for. So, my darling, Happy birthday!”

Nikhil was stunned. He knew what he was walking into the day he had moved in with Maya, but this? She could write, think and comprehend emotions and better yet, express them in such lucid language using words in ways he never knew they could be, it made him blush like a six year old girl facing her crush for the second time in one day.

“Gosh, Maya! Oh My Gosh! Thank you seems to be such a sorry word to say after what you just…”
Maya would never allow him to finish his sentences. Partly because she already knew what he was trying to say and partly because she knew he wouldn’t be able to complete it without fumbling and then feeling bad.
You’re welcome. See, even I can utter the banalities” She winked at him and scooted closer to snuggle into his arms. Nikhil knew he should be thanking God too, for giving him the pleasure of meeting her, no, for making her love him for he knew she was too good to be true! “Even the banalities sound eloquent when you say them.” He sighed.

“Why did you sigh?” Maya spoke into his chest, her head softly resting on his precordium. She had read that the area of the chest lying directly over the heart was called the precordium. Now she had a word for her favourite part of his chest!
“You know, even my thoughts aren’t as well-rounded as your words. I think with words like pleasure and making.

“Yes, those are words too!”  She laughed at his childishness.
“I would never be good enough for you, Maya. Why do you want me? I mean…”
“Wait! Where did that come from, Tiger?” Maya wasn’t fond of this conversation. She had never answered it either. It seemed to be something that kept haunting him, perennially and she required that he find the answer himself.

“Love without reason lasts the longest” Maya replied to him without looking up. Her ears were still listening to his beating heart with equal intent. Its rhythm had quickened but his chest was moving up and down with each breath, slowly and constantly. He was alive and that was the only answer she needed.

He would never understand the way she felt about him, because of him. She had never felt joy of this kind before he had blazed through her life. It was like an addiction for her. The more she got of him, the lesser it was. She had grown to fall in love with the nuances; his inability to express himself yet his face saying the entire story with surprising detail, his appreciation of her quirk for finding new words and facts, his acknowledgement of the very simple truth that he, was in fact, her fix.

Nikhil looked at her as she pulled away from his entangled arms to rest herself on the chair in front of the study. In one swift movement, she flicked the yellow lamp on, took out her notebook and ink pen and began scribbling. She was at work once more– her mind working its magic again.
She was beautiful, he thought to himself. ‘Beautiful’; such a shallow word for a woman with so much more to her than just that. He didn’t even have an appropriate word to describe her and there she was, effortlessly drawing loops, and crossing her Ts and dotting her Is– writing one breath taking paragraph after another and saying words which made him feel like he was the only man in love. He looked at his hands, the very hands that were cradling hers a few brief yet intoxicating moments ago, and wished that he has a word for her. He went in to shower, knowing full well that she would now be engrossed in her creation for sometime now. He kissed her forehead and went in.

The sound of the shower and tender fragrance of his soap reached outside; she breathed in deeply, itched her shoulder and continued to write.

“MAYA!”
She jumped right out of the chair. “What? You scared me!” She looked at the page of her notebook, soaked in black ink and the nib of her pen now lay broken. “What a beautiful mess, this is” She sang, and laughed, with her head tilting back to just the perfect degree. Her eyes would always close when she did that, after being witty. “That was a mighty quick shower! Did you forget something?”

“I have got the word. I have the word for YOU.”
She smiled and waited patiently for him to come toward her.
She was wearing his white shirt. Her smooth legs were crossed, the right over the left. Her toes were painted a bright fuchsia, chipped at the edges. Her fingers were long, artsy and now, ink-stained. Her hair was tied in to a bun, loose strands escaped from it to break free and kiss the nape of her neck. His shirt embodied her fragrance. She had an ink mark on her left cheek, right next to her lip. Her lips, so luscious, so full, curved into a smile. Her eyes, awaiting his words, questioning his sudden quiet stare. But he wanted to stare; he wanted to record every tiny detail of the moment. He wanted to remember the food stain on the right sleeve, the twinkle of her diamond ear ring, the outline of her waist, the time- 7:56 in the morning.

“So…”
Just this once, only this once, he did not let her complete when she began speaking. He kissed her.

“Fiancée”, he whispered, proudly and anxiously.

“That’s perfect, just perfect.” And she had her fix for the day, she was higher than ever and she knew that she had made the right choice. She rolled her lips out and slowly uttered the new word for her, F-I-A-N-C-E-E, and watched him silently dance back into the bathroom. The sound of the shower and the familiar smell of soap flooded her senses again, and she knew that she was home.

Of words.

His voice, like butter
Melted on your bare neck
As he whispered
Words
Delicious, tasteful words.
Words which could flow
…which could burst out the seams
Of your dreams, of your reality

His voice, like the ocean
Crashed on your toes
As he spoke with
Words
Vast, infinite words
Words which could ebb
…which could wash over silence
Of your present, of yesterday

His voice, like the breeze
Played with your ears
As he wrote with
Words
Eloquent, articulate words
Words which could lift
…which could intoxicate the hour
Of your imprisonment; willfully, knowingly.

 

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-By E.E Cummings

For more, go to this page!

– as small as a world, and as large as alone 🙂

It isn’t love, my word.

She knew he was incapacitated. She wanted to help him and she knew exactly how. He needed to write and she knew what a writer needs; fresh air, a walk, deep breaths and someone to hold his hand, to make him walk, to make him breathe, to make him write.
The wind beat against her face, her hair unkempt.
“Come on, close your eyes.”
He looked confused, but obliged her anyway. He knew she meant well, her ways were always a little obscure and obtuse, so he closed his eyes and felt her presence behind him. What was he supposed to do after closing his eyes?
“Now, breathe in.” She commanded him from behind, as if almost reading into his mind, while sheltering herself from the drizzle. They were on the terrace, high above the ground from where people looked like their miniscule self. She looked at him do exactly what she asked him to. She knew he was caught with his guard off, she knew he was lost. His ways were too straight, she needed to make him bend.

She slipped her hand into his; guiding him toward a destination only he knew the road to.

“Come, join me.” He felt her hand tighten the squeeze around his fingers.
“I don’t need that. You do. This is your journey.” She knew he would flutter initially but she also knew he would soon find his way. She let go of his hand and stood in front of him. His hands were on the boundary wall. She slipped herself under one arm and he opened his eyes. He had questions, she knew. He had the answers, she knew that too. They were face to face.

“Don’t open them!” He sighed and closed them again. The vertigo got to him; he held her waist to get some semblance to his blank, black world. Her hair brushed his chin as she rested her head on his shoulder.
“What am I supposed to do, Maya?”
“Write.”
“But, write how, write what?”
“You will figure it out”

She always left him without any guidelines. Her world was such; no rules, no followers and everyone eventually reached where they were supposed to. He had come to understand her over the past few months. The ways in which her mind worked were simple yet layered, easy yet deep. His was a more one dimensional approach- food, beer and work. His life was what he wrote and she had breezed into his life with exactly that- her words. He was a simple man too, like her, but he knew he was simple, unlike her. She always wanted to think of herself as the opposite, as someone who was difficult. Maybe she was, but he understood her like a bird understands flight.

He stood there, thinking about the curve of her waist, the fragrance of her hair and the immense desire she had…desire of what, he could never fathom. He moved his hands as she shuffled to a more comfortable position and words began to flow out like poetry, gradually, just like she had promised they would. He opened his eyes.

“ I have something. You know, Maya, I always have something, but I can never put them to words.” She knew what he was going through. She smiled and closed her eyes too and just before she did, she spotted a firefly. He saw it too. She lifted her head, close to his ears and ever so softly, he felt her breath brush through his skin.
“This is your story. This is your world. This is all yours.” She whispered to him, while he felt his poetry jumble into words. His eyes, closed again, he felt exactly what she wanted him to feel. She stepped closer, stood up straight. His hand tightened around her waist. She moves, he falls. Her lips touched his ear while she spoke in a whisper.
“This is your time, this is the moment. What do you want to write, Dhruv? What do you think should happen next?”

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