I want to be held, his firm arms carrying me to the room while the big moon and the pitch blue sky stares at us. Whisper sweet nothings, I want to say to him, while he watches me with hooded eyes. His eyes follow my every breath, his big beige tee-shirt against my yellowish Indian skin…in the warm orange light of the room; I want him to thrust me onto the hardwood bed, evoking sentiments of all things old, all things archaic, an ancient scent, the fragrance of teak swirls in rings around semi naked bodies. The heat is almost death.
His steady, strong arms support him, while his muscular yellowish Indian body covers all of mine, I am engulfed, enveloped in a cloud of misty lust, so white, like those white sheets wrapped around lovers struggling to reach their aftermath, their climax. Till then it is all a tale of luka-chuppi, hide and seek, who finds whom, only the crumples of the sheet say. Our vulnerabilities intermingle into one as our bodies become roadmaps without any singular destination.
The moon is a beautiful round, it has secrets and sorrows, it whispers to the passer-by clouds. Like my partner, a veil of dark wrecking lust covers his face, as he ravishes my body, finding the curves, the crevices and even the ghats. The journey is shrouded in mystery and swallowed whole by the insensitive lust. The anticipation will drive one up the wall. My lover’s chapped lips cover my plump breasts, sucking for life, it is almost shattering. They travel further down towards my tiny belly button, biting, tugging at the susceptible flesh, a moan is an expected reaction, but it elicits a different story all together.
His big firm chafed hands, those of a sculptor, reach for my breasts, kneading them like dough, they squeeze for an eternity. While his lips roguishly roam about in unchartered territory. I want to say Terra Nullius. The brave black clouds scatter around the globulous moon, lingering onto it for an existence, now they pass, scurrying away from depth. The depth conjures up images of a long lost well in a village of yore in ancient time. Stories are only of the ancient.
My lover’s fingers caress me, trailing my lips like rose petals, delicate, supple and filled with juices. His lips whisper these stories to my many curves. Cell memory retains them. I am wild, as if on all fours, in a deep dark forest shrouded in mystery and secrets.
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