Monday, 22 April 2013


The raindrops cling on to window-sills and door-frames, like reluctant lovers when it's time to go. A reluctant me and a reluctant you. Holding on, pulling, inhaling. Storing up the sight and scent and taste of each other till the next time we meet. Allowing our lips to brush once more, maybe twice more. How do I stop myself from touching your face, your hair, your arms? How do I tear my gaze from yours? Tear. Like ripping, the brutal sound of separation. Later, we can sew it back, good as new. But what of now? Now. Now. Now. I want you now. I don't want to let go. I want to be closer. Bodies pressed together. Closer. Whispering into your mouth. Closer. 

The drops fall- running down the length of the window, like my tongue- running down the length of you. Time ticks by, as do our hearts. My cold hands are glues to your warm skin, and either you cool down or I heat up, but what I know for sure is that we now feel One. But the clock keeps going, faster and faster, and you tear yourself from my hold. Tear. Like ripping, the brutal sound of separation. Sticks and stones can break my bones, but true love can rip souls. It can also heal them, you remind me, sew them back, good as new.

Monday, 8 April 2013

Lovers' Weather

I haven't written in a while, but it's raining, and there's a thunderstorm, and this kind of weather always inspires me to write. I call it poets' weather. Or artists' weather. Or lovers' weather. It's when the rain-kissed earth gives off a rich, steamy, familiar smell, and it reminds me of lying with him under a blanket, pressing my face to his broad back. I can feel both my cool cheek and his warm skin, as though they are fused together. Inseparable. And when he falls asleep next to me, I look at him. Sleep makes him look so fragile, so breakable. And I vow to never let him be broken. It's not always about how he loves me, I realise that now. How do I love him? Fiercely. Passionately. Softly. Wholly. And as I hold him together, I marvel at his perfection. He is beautiful. And he is mine. I pray to God that I can always say this with the utmost confidence. He is mine. I run my fingers along the ridge of his nose, playing with the soft dip it forms just between his eyes. A perfect place for my lips. His skin is hot under my tongue and he tries to wake up, but his eyes are glued shut with exhaustion and tranquility. "I feel calmer around you," he once said, and I believe him because I know the serenity he brings with himself whenever he comes to see me. I push his hair off his forehead but the curls fall back, not into place, but still perfect. Occasionally, he snores, and I hold him tighter, afraid that my smile is too loud and would wake him. Afterwards, my skin smells of him. Like the earth smells of rain.