The art of not fucking.

I love to sleep
                The sleep of love
                               With you.

Love makes us
Drowsy

Our smaller hands
        Smaller bodies

Night rushes
Into the arms of my lover
                 The back of her mind
                  The length of her spine

Rhythm of slight movements
Drunk on red wine

Love blooms
In sucking scars
Of each others bodies

Softening the harshness
Under the covers

Alternate longings
Half belongings

Exchanging
The art of fucking
For
The art of
Sensual longing.

Occurrence.

Have you ever met someone who makes you feel like you have just woken up to life?
That person could be bruised in the oddest of ways but for you their bruises hold no value. For you, all that matters is the intensity of your chance encounter of discovering them. You carefully, take each step. You want to explore them like a traveller explores a new city..but its different..its different because even though you are a traveller navigating your way through strange lands trying to find a balance between loneliness and a sense of connection..you somehow feel like this person has been your home all along.
No wonder they say
That souls don’t just meet.
Souls remember. Souls connect.
And sooner or later
The red threads between the two points start pulling them closer.

Time is a precious gift.
Moments are made in an instant.

I have found a home. I have found my moment.
One with a roof made of love.
One that’s gentle and pleasant in its roots.

Dreamscapes and me.

I am a sigh breaking into you. I escape from you in the form of distant thoughts. But you tell me a different story. You confess your longing for my words.

I kiss you while you’re wrapped up in the blanket made of oceanic waves. Reflecting moonlight. Turning purple.

Let me know the depths of this geometrical pattern that we form as our bodies dance in half sleepy cuddles. I will undo the way universe has planned our lives.

I will touch you until
My touch
Is the only feeling you can remember.

In every life.

These nights I spend away make me feel like a restless tree caught in a restless wind, moving quite restlessly.

Separation Anxiety.

He is going away tonight
To dissolve in the city scapes
Of a brighter city
With brighter lights

No more will he illuminate
The dark spaces
Of my life

I will miss him
His smell
His car
His words
His eyes

He will ask me
About my life

I will tell him
He took half of it

With him.

We will break
Again

Until the next time

We get to feel
Our auras mix

He is leaving
Behind
Such
Emptiness

I am
Transfixed.

Suddenly
Blind.

Talk is cheap.

We had our plate full of silence. We ate together.

The night is tender
Just as the sensations inside me

Scattered
In pieces

I rest
Almost beautifully

Wide awake
By the intoxicating lives we live together

This pillow is a mountain
I am crawling

Through your neck

This moment is your shoulder
Blade

Soft

Emotions turn opaque

Your feathers are green.

When the first rays of the sun descend on earth, light gathers all around you.
You wake up absorbed in the golden light, painted over by the promises of a new sun.

Washed over by the sun kissed glow of new beginnings you feel spectacular. In the noon, when the sun is at its peak, your ideas heat up. The attention span widens.

In the city where the streets are burning.
You manage to sustain your form.

The leaves shed around you
You watch then fall.

As the sun sets, clouds meander as they chase your evening thoughts. Touching lives with your intentions and flouting normality because constructs are flawed.

In the night you experience the blues of the dark sky to the very depths of your mind.

Love flows through your blood.

Until I come to you,
With quiet steps
Only to find
That
You fit perfectly in the palm of my hand.

Your feathers are green.
The silent watchers scream

Birds of paradise
Migrate to your room

To watch us.
As we.

To drink this scene
Of
You and me.

Moulded into a shell
No spaces in between.

Van Gogh with a phone.

The night has risen with beauty in its womb. The earth spins in a trance yet we cannot feel its motion. We only experience its stillness.
Just like our lives. Its easy to feel beautiful when we allow beauty to flow right through us.
And what is beauty?
Its acceptance. Purity of it. Beauty is the way I thread these words into sentences that help me communicate my inner tides to you.

The inner tides.
Internal skies.
Of harmony and of nothingness.

Certain gestures of the soul pour themselves out into the world through poetry that reveals and hides.
But you are never hidden from me.

I feel like van Gogh .
Only with a phone.

Funny how differences brings people together and similarities can break them apart.

But  nothing really grows apart. Does it?

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