Hi Friends,
It's been quite a while since I wrote a non-factual post. It only goes a mile to show that my memories and deep thoughts have been tucked between drapes and drapes of sheets. They have almost been forgotten. Now that they have been triggered out of sleep by circumstantial situations, words must flow...
Stale desire, that's what gleams
Through her eyes.
Yellowish and bluish and darkish by the sides.
Her festering desires,
She hides it well between veins of
Light laughter
Sighs
Songs
Small talks
Chest pains
Heavy loads...
But all at once, she is gripped to silence
When she sees the things that
That tint her eyes with gray films
And open her mind to the petrichors of newness:
Knuckles brushed against each other,
Thighs greased with affection,
A million buck stare at the lips,
A smoothening of silk, a caress,
A deep smooshing of the lips,
A lovely old nose stained with a young chin,
Firm jaws set on runways , but bearing a wide grin
In secret corners
A slight wind lulling the skin of newly-weds,
--
The simplest of gestures reminding her that
Love is still a thing.
And then, desire- stale, stiff and sentient,
Sifts through her voice from these silent sights.
The faucet does not stay open for too long
But it stays open long enough to show that
She still believes...
Somewhere in her, she shakes the world off
Its dust; rubs it hard with shea butter, fluffs it into
A pillow, and sleeps her way into beautiful dreams.
But her dreams are only buying her time,
And stashing them as soft pads on their hard skins.
--
I wonder what they will wear when she
Runs out of time.
I have desires too. But they are not stale.
They are freshly minted and left to hang on a rail.
I don't want to wash my dirty desires in public.
But I want to display the sheer magnamity
Of how small, simple yet uncouth my desires are.
I am spreading my thighs for everyone to see,
But it's all dark in there.
My mother and I,
We don't wear the world so well.
Try as we may, it doesn't quite fit.
Our petiteness is drowned amidst the long train
Of fabrics the world has sewn into itself.
We adjust the sleeves, hold the helms of the world,
Whip the shaggy edges drizzling out,
But try as we may, the world just wouldn't fit.
Trust me, you might just want to take these words very literally. In any case, what do you think about the poem?