He kissed her and touched her and adored her, as if he was reciting the most passionately written poetry ever by Neruda to her.
Some people prefer yellow lights in their bathrooms. Warm. The one which hides the blemishes and all the body's ugliness. But she sat there. Naked. Hair wet dripping with cold water. On the white tiled floor. A cold cfl light on the wall above the small mirror. But she sat there. Silently and peacefully. While the shower was on. And poured boiling hot water on her. Her skin burnt. Burnt like hot iron. Turning her skin red on the palms. But relieved her of all the pain. Her muscles, her lower back, the beautiful wide but tired shoulders. And she took all the heat in. And then turned the knob to the left. It all stopped.
Do you know how much i love your city? The city which you claim is not yours. Of course you wouldn't. It is so natural. I love it. It is so human and not humane. Your city i mean. The old buildings, the parks and the ugly malls. Okay the malls i cannot stand one bit im not going to go on and on about it and so i wont. I love how your hand slides inside the spaces between my skin and the garment, I get scared and the next moment relieved too. Just how the skin burns outside, the soul burns inside. And then you dig into my skin and soul without yourself realizing it. Your palm and fingers, fingers which you hate so much, travel the length of my back. I don't know why but im having a deja vu while i write all this.
Sleeping on the terrace in the winter nights of February of an unknown village in Bihar, staring at the moon and counting the stars, under the warmest blanket while the existence of this life of mine was just 12 years old and was dealing with a loss of a loved one for the first time, praying for their soul to rest in peace finally, that is how the touch of both our hands felt like. And you say that I am destroying you? God knows. You have been un-layering me and i try to layer myself again. And again. And then i fail to do so. I don't know which is worse.
She still sits there. Under the ugly white light which makes her accept herself every time she looks into the mirror. All the scars and the blemishes. And rest of the ugliness and imperfections which she tries to hide under the cloak of her loose masculine clothing in the name of being a strong woman. Bullshit. Whats the whole point of accepting then? it is still missing. I don't know how many kilometers we walked that day, maybe it does not matter. You must have walked those distances so many times no? While you were in love. Sometimes when you were heartbroken too? I know nothing about you. And yet i feel like guiding your lips with my fingers while you kiss my layers. The skin. The body.
The same which likes to walk by your side, sometimes ahead of you, sometimes behind you. The same skin which freezes while his fingers dance on it over the cotton and consequently warms it up while it leaves a trail of emotions behind. She walks behind you like the similar trail you mark her body with. And the more she walks, the more she falls in love with the city. The one full of garbage, concrete and big beautiful banyan trees, just like any other city. Agra maybe? God knows man. How strange. We both are from cities which has lifeline like rivers, yet they are so venomous. But then let the venom be. I don't want it now.
I close my eyes. Feel your breath against my eyes. Sometimes against the heartbeat and then she feels like saying; Don't Stop! Keep doing it. Just keep doing what you do to me. And no don't make love, which you don't have for me, but make the poetry to me. Just the poetry. The poetry which she tries to recreate under the long spells of hot shower. I am fine with this place being so unplanned and full of egoistic people in your words and experience. As one realizes who their 'true people' are. Who your 'my people' are. Otherwise everything is so perfect and yet just an act of fraud. At least an unplanned city is not a slave of someone Else's decision. Its fucked up but its so free. The people residing in it are the only ones who can mend it. tame it. And who is responsible to plan a city anyway? Our politicians? Engineers? Our parents? Really? Or Poets like you and me. who cant even plan a day properly and all their impulsive trips are based on just an ' I don't know what i wanna do OR where i want to go OR I don't know what i want to eat.' Isn't that how we make the most of a place? No. It better be unplanned. Order will follow after chaos. Just like your touch. Just like our nights and the mornings spent together. That is why i love your city. Of course i love it a lot less than i love you. I love it nevertheless.
Some people prefer yellow lights in their bathrooms. Warm. The one which hides the blemishes and all the body's ugliness. But she sat there. Naked. Hair wet dripping with cold water. On the white tiled floor. A cold cfl light on the wall above the small mirror. But she sat there. Silently and peacefully. While the shower was on. And poured boiling hot water on her. Her skin burnt. Burnt like hot iron. Turning her skin red on the palms. But relieved her of all the pain. Her muscles, her lower back, the beautiful wide but tired shoulders. And she took all the heat in. And then turned the knob to the left. It all stopped.
Do you know how much i love your city? The city which you claim is not yours. Of course you wouldn't. It is so natural. I love it. It is so human and not humane. Your city i mean. The old buildings, the parks and the ugly malls. Okay the malls i cannot stand one bit im not going to go on and on about it and so i wont. I love how your hand slides inside the spaces between my skin and the garment, I get scared and the next moment relieved too. Just how the skin burns outside, the soul burns inside. And then you dig into my skin and soul without yourself realizing it. Your palm and fingers, fingers which you hate so much, travel the length of my back. I don't know why but im having a deja vu while i write all this.
Sleeping on the terrace in the winter nights of February of an unknown village in Bihar, staring at the moon and counting the stars, under the warmest blanket while the existence of this life of mine was just 12 years old and was dealing with a loss of a loved one for the first time, praying for their soul to rest in peace finally, that is how the touch of both our hands felt like. And you say that I am destroying you? God knows. You have been un-layering me and i try to layer myself again. And again. And then i fail to do so. I don't know which is worse.
She still sits there. Under the ugly white light which makes her accept herself every time she looks into the mirror. All the scars and the blemishes. And rest of the ugliness and imperfections which she tries to hide under the cloak of her loose masculine clothing in the name of being a strong woman. Bullshit. Whats the whole point of accepting then? it is still missing. I don't know how many kilometers we walked that day, maybe it does not matter. You must have walked those distances so many times no? While you were in love. Sometimes when you were heartbroken too? I know nothing about you. And yet i feel like guiding your lips with my fingers while you kiss my layers. The skin. The body.
The same which likes to walk by your side, sometimes ahead of you, sometimes behind you. The same skin which freezes while his fingers dance on it over the cotton and consequently warms it up while it leaves a trail of emotions behind. She walks behind you like the similar trail you mark her body with. And the more she walks, the more she falls in love with the city. The one full of garbage, concrete and big beautiful banyan trees, just like any other city. Agra maybe? God knows man. How strange. We both are from cities which has lifeline like rivers, yet they are so venomous. But then let the venom be. I don't want it now.
I close my eyes. Feel your breath against my eyes. Sometimes against the heartbeat and then she feels like saying; Don't Stop! Keep doing it. Just keep doing what you do to me. And no don't make love, which you don't have for me, but make the poetry to me. Just the poetry. The poetry which she tries to recreate under the long spells of hot shower. I am fine with this place being so unplanned and full of egoistic people in your words and experience. As one realizes who their 'true people' are. Who your 'my people' are. Otherwise everything is so perfect and yet just an act of fraud. At least an unplanned city is not a slave of someone Else's decision. Its fucked up but its so free. The people residing in it are the only ones who can mend it. tame it. And who is responsible to plan a city anyway? Our politicians? Engineers? Our parents? Really? Or Poets like you and me. who cant even plan a day properly and all their impulsive trips are based on just an ' I don't know what i wanna do OR where i want to go OR I don't know what i want to eat.' Isn't that how we make the most of a place? No. It better be unplanned. Order will follow after chaos. Just like your touch. Just like our nights and the mornings spent together. That is why i love your city. Of course i love it a lot less than i love you. I love it nevertheless.
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