Memoir Of The First Tryst

The canopy waves like a flag,
There is a certain lightness in the air.
The sun melts in the mellow-gold afterglow
As the day passes-by in this nameless road.

You lift the coffee cup for a sip.
Your scarlet lips on the brink of white
Porcelain – a flamingo on a snow-covered lake.
A feisty young maid; strawberry and cream.
The cup steals a quiet evidence
Of your mouth: lush red.
This is the chalice, the Holy Grail.

I try to make some sense out of this
Chaotic display of beauty.
I focus.
Slowly a few scenes are born.
Your eyes – hypnotic, bottomless, infinite.
Like the wheel of Time,
Grabbing and destroying everything, one by one.
Makes me wanna dive and die in that
Endless depth. The depth of Maya.

No. Let me focus.
The arch of the eyebrows. The long lashes.
A kite in the night sky circling on a field-rat;
Waiting to dive on it – claws and beak.
Tear its heart and feed on its entrails.
Chew its liver.
The spectacular prettiness of death.

Clouds are gathering. But it won’t rain.
Gathering clouds of blonde curls don’t rain.
Dense, frothy, wild curls of locks-
A careless strand on the small forehead
Disciplined by a finger to its rightful place.
Like the sound of piano: joy, pain, anguish, triumph!
These fingers create drama on easel.
Fair, slender, ladylike,
They bend like the ending of a fairy tale.

From a sandy beach your brandy voice trails –
Peachy. Gooey. Sticky. Blatantly sexual.
Crème chocolat. Sauna bath. Molten lava. Love.
The ebb and flow carry me forward…towards…words.
Words fall from the corner of your lips:
Snowflakes. Train-wrecks. Wild berries. Apples.
Your bubble-gum tongue slide over white crystals
Arranged in two perfect rows.
The slender neck – bending, unending,
Sending shivers down my spine.

My iris dilate. My gaping mouth.
I could manage a few mumbles. Verbal nods.
Your dark-winged eyes circle me,
Searching my face for weakness.
Your head tilts sideways in an inner smile –
You have tasted my defeat. Defeat! The feet.
Those toes. Fleur Delacour. French pedicure. Fresh macaron.
Feet which move on neon dance-floors
Like an assassin in maroon stilettos.

You follow my gaze. It’s a mess.
I’m in a pool of sentiments.
Soaked breadstick. Limp Bizkit. Lumpy soup.
All I want to do is kiss those feet.
Complete submission. Ego-death. Salt of earth.
Wildflower. Cold breeze. I’m lifted up in mid-air.
The smell. Pearly gates. Musk. Lust. Last stand.
Your skin wraps me like a carpet.
Mediterranean market. Marrakesh. Morocco.
Marinated in your hyper-aroma my olfactory
Is being demolished – bit my bit.
Marooned in your body-smell. Your body!
Cherry sweet. Sugar beet. Rainforest. Songbirds. Cinnamon.
Tender like an orchid.
Wild like a tusker.
High flood. Warm blood. Rosebud. Nose-stud.

Your nose bridge. The edge of Khufu pyramid.
Cleopatra. Nefertiti. Isis. The apex of obelisk.
A razor-sharp Katana – cold steel of the old samurai.
Like a moth mesmerised by fire
I’m hypnotised, glued to your nose.
Have my mortal eyes seen anything prettier?
Starry Night? Pieta? Mona Lisa? Birth of Venus?
Nope.
‘Positively’ no.
The pride. The snide. And when you spew spunk, spit cuss,
Your nose curls, hot flush, pink rush –
The burgundy dot on the left of your nose blush…
You. Are. A. Miracle.

Women. There have been some.
Few were fine. A couple of good ones even.
But there will be only one miracle.
Only one Goddess.
Only one who will crush me like a sea-shell
Under her feet and walk away without
A single backward glance –
Remains of a romance.
Musings of a slow dance.

The canopy waves like a flag.
There is a certain lightness in the air.
This may not last. You may not let me.
But today it’s happening. Today I am allowed.
Today I’m in love with you.

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