tormented child

There were reasons to believe the words u said, uttered in moments of passion
Me scribbling my name on your ample bosom
U staring at the wall, scribbling your mind with a hundred rhymes, no reason
In our little private world, spent, composed, ventilating
Encompassed by you… fluttering through time, your lips agape, breathing

Frozen in out little private hole
Ur mother does not know about me, your father would be furious if he does
I am a result of your indulgence
My lips on your navel.
Your gasp of pleasure.
The window is shut, u insisted on it
What was suffocating me, the closeness of your limbs or my own stuffy little room with only a window that too closed.

“ What would I do without you”, u said disjointedly
My thought in your lips, divinity in action, maybe
The whole world colluding to make u believe the things you want to
at that moment
The honesty of your skin against mine, the sweat on our palms, the movement of the eyeless fan, the painting on the wall, the contrast of the first day in this one room flat and anonymous existence and now your fragrance wafting through the room and the contours of my mind.
There is something about sex one knows and admits. There is something about love one does not.

Lying like this, the way we are now, the world outside at its own pace, a reality; and my hands and mind at their own pace and yours may be on a different paradigm.
Three substantively different planes and the merger of the moment.
The reality, the hour, the moment, the minute, frozen in personal history. Never to repeat itself in this form.
Like the words which came out of your mouth in the shape of your lips producing those sounds that they did.

Thirteen months have passéd since the first kiss. Not on the lips but close. An ambition now well left behind. The excitement of the allowance of that moment still feels nice. Your magnanimity rounded off to love. The celebration. The prize.

A chapter from an old diary with missing and torn pages. Your scribbles on which hours have been spent, researched and revisited. A group photograph in your school uniform where somehow the other faces were fuzzy. Even the best looking girl looked a shade paler than you.

Your birthday party and expensive gifts, well laid out table and designer food .
The who’s who and the fervent mood.
My shadow merged with myself, another anonymity, observing the reverie.
Only you looking real in the soiree, the milieu celebrating your existence, I celebrate my love.
Your father’s expensive suit and important presence stultifying clear thinking. His baritone squeezing the little confidence of an adoloscent.
My report card drawn in red. Your celebrated family, exalted positions and my incongruous sketch, dominated by your eyes as a birthday gift.