Sable or black? Consistency and sometimes misery. Her lips symptomatic speak of simple joys– in this surrealistic reality where the moon mahogany-red shies away from human greed and psyche; being lesser nocturnal out of the two, the clouds, freshly scented, bear witness to abduction. Hades, haunted by Persephone’s ethereal beauty
offers a few pomegranate seeds, just as the rain begins to fall at the end of a hot
and oppressive day;
her mouth despite the coolness outside is dry,
fumbling and every song broken, the inky silhouette of desire
already has her in its arms–
that she is the one he wants is implacable and clear. There is nothing more deceptive than a detail clearly sketched, basil, clover, bellis and shadow mourn as some days the world moves too quickly and other times slow.
Suggestiveness is all allusion, inference and association; a weapon, an art of establishing the fragrance of a rose in the mind of a reader without presenting the rose itself— I am fairly new to the subject of sensuality, my humble verses denoting the fire that hums inside my breast. Salt on the wind, an erotic poem is one that doesn’t make us wait and sit— it’s similar to diving into the ocean, cerulean ecstasy, from quickening of pulse to emotion quietly settling in. Tell me, isn’t it possible to taste honey without having it run down the corner of one’s lips? Words, when devised properly have the power to leave us alone with our thoughts— a rural silence,
a muted night sought after,
nowadays as the city in continuous hustle and bustle grows restless; an erotic poem stays with us long after taste buds change.
An unfinished poem lies in the lines of his palm; earthy and ambiguous it frequently invokes the muse which like the river is otherwise brimming, emerald blue rippling, indomitable with a hope to induce— there is no denying it, his essence is that of wheat, of fields laden with eternity in each turn of the breeze. The sweet, rich brown a breathless possibility that he might be “he,” is heavenly. But oh! Blackness encircles like the arms of a cypress tree,
just as dark days are inevitable, they are necessary—
mournful pebbles pry and I clutch my heart, he’s the song I sing when everything seems to be falling apart. Subtly pink, his lips put the sunrise to shame, without touching he beckons the soul and moves in as silently as a blown kiss; and I lie here envisioning him under a different sky during the early hours of night—
at a point where edges are blurred by infinite longing, I inveigle sleep and sigh; “for wheat is wheat.”
An encore. Could anything be more delicious than the sky pale blue smudged grey? The swirl of him in my mouth, coffee lips with an intention to honor with pretty torments— we are closer than physical, a bumbershoot forgotten while sauntering in the rain.
Whatever happens, happens once. It’s ephemeral like passing mist. Somewhat like the taste of dark chocolate, the night less than nocturnal; life is brutal that way, the moments that touch us are also those we can never hold onto for long.
I write them down every chance I get. The exquisite blend of hot and cold; that is life. When I found him, I learned things I never knew about myself. How I long to kiss his lips, shapely as a rosebud, sometimes I still my thoughts in hopes of hearing his heartbeat. We are many miles apart at the moment. We will remember once when it is over, said and
done – it was a time and there was never enough of it.
By day the café is the colour of bergamot orange. I hold on to knowledge that it’s disposition alone that determines affinity.