My Sweet Love

My Sweet...Sweet Love,

Memories of those days seem so near. It is not a distant memory, it is a nearby memory...the memory from yesteryears. At times I attacked you with my lips, so provocatively, with no warning. You ran like a deer and yet you came back with all the power of a tigress, to seduce me with your penetrating look. Those nearness and kisses infront of many prying eyes, on the road, in the bus, at the office.

Memories of yesteryears... The sweet scent of your lips always haunt me. Not only your lips...
The smell of lime and summer still lingers in the coarse brown black hair – unruly and angry – billowing in the vagrant winds of past; carelessly wriggling in and out of the rainbow band that struggles to stay put on the sides of an awestruck head that nods and shakes in wonder – drinking in the visions of rain crawling down the steep of your chin – hands frantically in motion, fingers opening and closing, drawing circles and abstractions around a figment of thought you can feel create ripples inside your head – but I can see it - so clearly, in your eyes burning bright with their light – I can see what you can only imagine.

Atleast, I once could. Now, you are so near me...like the yesteryears.

The dreams float lazily in the steaming mug of coffee – tossed carelessly by the window sill – with potted marigolds laughing and whispering – bathing in the plumes of steam of a hot sun – sinful coffee – and lazy dreams dressed in brown, tasting like chocolate powder – scald the tongue when sipped carelessly but addictive like the magic mushrooms in your eyes.

There is a low lying bed, and soft yellow pillows – squares and rounds – one, two, three, too many. Covers, with geometrical patterns, blue, red, green, pastels – white, black and gray – snug corners, warm and fuzzy – there are winter nights, and flashes of lightning – thunder and rain – open windows and wind carrying the smell of wet earth and the wetness at the base of my neck – inside your palms. There is a magic brewing, in between the whispers – strong arms, fuzzy chest – a secret promise of tangy taste of salt inside my mouth.

The sweat trickles down my back – hot summer evenings – the parapet by the sea – moist and clammy circles of dust cake my face – you lick the sweat off my fingers as I tell you stories. Wide eyed, amused and besotted, you sling my bag across your chest – you wonder why I won’t let you look me in the eye – you smell the intensity, but like a connoisseur – the lover stays back in the bed.

Sleepy, arms dangling, eyes lost – the dawn trickles in as we’re both sleeping – entwined and ensconced in frames of gold, silver and wood – snapshots, wild and roving, young and strong – you dip your fingers in the pot of luck and specks of star dust sticks to your skin like the fortune you carry inside your secret pocket.

There are the autumn evenings – withering leaves of ageing memories, the twigs, now crunching beneath our feet – scattered in the wind, across the winding pathway – knots of affections, cords tightening, bringing you so close of me that my chest hurts with the heaving – passion and guttural choking laughter – as your hands muss my unruly black brown hair.

Grave silences, sometimes welcome, but punctuated with the fervent look in your eyes – wild, making me come alive – diminutive eyes, sorrowful, trying to wipe the imaginary tears off my face, while I’m still lying in your arms but you’re too far away, deep in sleep – fingers lightly brushing the rose tinged sadness off my face – but you never forgot to brew the coffee – the way I liked.

Still do.

Scores of angry words – bursts of passion – followed by the rigors of sensual provocations – sometimes hurting, often bewildering. But mostly leaving me dazed – your colors – a rush of dark, but addictive strength, your eyes reading me, but not comprehending, the way you itched inside me – you, the way I saw you.

Running amok – in the fragrance of spring – your feet walk carelessly over the carpet of green, singing songs, making love to me – your eyes still roving, all over me – you sense the surrender – I feel it – deep within me - fingers dipping in the warm stream of present, past a memory – a flick of a finger when you dust the imaginary delusions off my face and ask me if I know how much you love me – cant I see it in the things that you do – the way you touch me – the way you hold me – they way you take me back – even when I’d lost myself along the way so long ago that I cant even retrieve the memory of me – as I once used to be.

I nod yes – you can read my thoughts – see the wilderness gaping at you – curtains parting and you can smack at the surrender, playful and noisy – innocently wild and notorious for peeping out at all the wrong moments.

I’m in your arms again – under the covers – the geometrical patterns sticking my skin – your sweat smells like tarts – and there is the bliss of warm rush of blood on my face.

Lost eyes – wandering - wondering – if something is yet so wrong with me – love happens – in a moment – and in a moment lost – is the love lost too?

You hold me – love me – you fan my fantasies with your sweat – you walk the walk for me – thorns sticking out of your feet – I have tasted your blood as you bit deep in to my lower lip – I can taste the red. It`s not the redness of your lipstick, it`s the redness of blood.

Still a memory haunts.

It’s my newest lover letter to you.

Memories power my vigour, memories strangle my death, memories gives me life...

All my love, my Sweet...
The love has not changed...

ANAND