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Showing posts from 2014

Atramentous

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I could see his hair jump up in attention the moment his fingers touched the craggy, cross-grained externality of the canvas. He was close enough, and his eyes closer enough for comfort. I saw the derrière of the cloth arch out when the pulp of his fingers pressed down the cloth, smudging the charcoal. His eyes roamed over my calves, and I could see his pupils expatiating on the nudging bone and the soft sinuosity backing it up.  Working his way up the softness of my legs, he made me feel unashamed of myself. He looked at my legs, but he saw me.  I heard his breathing hitch and mature like a wildfire when his eyes dived along the convexity of my buttocks and the sudden concavity of my belly. He squinted his eyes on approaching my navel, and sighed loudly on seeing the ring there. A desolate smirk worked its way up his mouth as he transited his attention back to the canvas. He took in all of my ass in a glance, but he saw me. His eyes licked their way around my waist, but he saw me.

Winter, Won't Be All Over Me

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Twelve flavours Twelve lovers Twelve dates Twelve places  Twelve kisses Twelve beds Twelve breakfasts Twelve flowers Twelve coffees Twelve teas Twelve omelettes Twelve sunny side ups Twelve walks Twelve restaurants Twelve pasts Twelve presents Twelve futures Twelve projects Twelve jobs Twelve cities Twelve foods Twelve eyes Twelve voices Twelve poems Twelve stories Twelve songs Twelve genres Twelve exes Twelve, more to come Twelve t-shirts Twelve shirts Twelve sweaters Twelve bras Twelve blankets Twelve days Twelve nights Twelve weeks Twelve months The past year And the next to come. Therapy. Happier this time,  Ak.

Miens

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Why, peter out from labelling my opaque coffee so sinister, when it's your breaths that constantly obscure its fidelity to me. Same breaths, your husky breaths, which wrote stories like Braille over my shoulders I still read. And stop secreting behind the book when you clearly are thinking about licking the wetness that has cascaded down my throat and is snuggly leaning off my cleavage - which would still blush of you. And my chest would swell from the slightest prompting of your voice. Stop rummaging hands through your hair! They're tethering my heart and lungs in multitudes of knots inside my chest. I remember the time my hands shuddered from tugging at your hair as they perused through all your apprehensions. Did you just scrutinise me why I think you did? I know. I remember this song, too. It's the one you raged out on my throat to dampen the fire in it, which smouldered with a flame, but no smoke. And your foxy eyes, are always a different colour - darker, whenever y

Fall II

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And this time there's clamor in the silence, Clamor, people christen as deafening, for they, Perpetually dwindle from hearing the clamor, But that's what average people do, don't they? Because the universe is bereft of your actuality, but you, Know, of the universe's survivals, And the air has eaten the cinnamon from the froth of the tea, Not because it seems frosty now, But the air is itself flushed with the pong, Which prompts you of oblivious reminiscence,  The unprecedented warmth of two sets of pearls against, Freezing cheeks, somehow vanquishing, Because no matter why you think the sunlight's dusty, It barely parades the dance, of the sole wit why they shed,  Is they're indomitable in their way of thought for blemishing you,  When is it, will you understand, How colourful a death can seem? Fall Until next, .... Ak.

Arranged

"जब से तुम्हारे नाम की मिशरी होंठ लगाई है, मीठा सा ग़म है, और मीठी सी तनहाई है।" Salt, chilli, mint, cumin, different colours, labelled boxes, Damn it, but where was the damn sugar, Weren't her mornings bitter enough to ingest an obscure coffee, Thanks Dad, she chanted in her breath again, Thanks for marrying a bird to a somnolent vulture, No wait! Make that ostrich, a very bald ostrich, Who screamed like a hooker, and scratched like a dog, Who's the woman, him or me?! Can't easily recall if he ever gave an orgasm to me, Oh, and don't come about talking to me of kids, Maybe if I had a diaper wearing ass running around the lobbies, Who knows, I might have felt better to be wedded to a set of balls of three, None of which seem to devoid of sex, and sperm free, And who was that woman from next door who told me when I was five, That rich men, and four houses are enough for a lifetime? Stupid man, what was the point, When he couldn't even come to the cockta

Shorts

The hard muscled shoulders were broad in keeping with his height, but it was more the overall virility of the man was so disturbing. And attractive. And definitely scary.  She tried to concentrate, she really did, but she was acutely aware of a hard male thigh against hers, the 5 o'clock stubble on his chin, which accentuated his brand of aggressive masculinity tenfold, and, not least, the bigness of him.  And she was startled back to reality as the conductor shouted out the next stop. Luck, it seemed, had never befriended her. *** It wasn't love that brought his entire brood rushing to his bedside. When his estranged wife, three sons - two legitimate, one bastard - and, yes, even his former daughter-in-law dropped everything at his beck and call, it was not out of devotion but rather sheer disbelief that the man who had launched a financial empire and sculpted their own lives might turn out to be a mere mortal like the rest of them. Time, was no more a friend of his.

Wadjet

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Amidst the breathless blabber of shares and finances floating over the massive oak slab, blanketed shamelessly by a traffic of ceramics with mouthwatering, pocket-unfriendly food, he gawped powerlessly toward her face. She had a 50s hairstyle, with her hair mysteriously covering the left side of her face. The opaque ringlets of her frenetic tuft made the coiffure look almost uncouth. Only, it didn't look rude on her - somehow, the lush gloom flowing from her crown flattered the grainy freckles around her nose. He was certain, it was fishy the way she'd styled her hair. He watched her move, table to table, with an insouciance that wasn't, in the least, shoddy. She wasn't beautiful, or pretty; well, not in the literal sense of it. He wanted her to wait at his table, wanted to see her up close. He wanted to notice her freckles, if they crowded just her nose or were they lightly sprinkled all over her face. Unable to tame his resistance any further, he asked for a refill

Breathe. Inhale. Feel.

It poured, that day, Not the kind that puncture, Your skin, slightly, Like the injuries, in the shower, You trace, after you make love. But, the ones that, Fall indolently, nonchalantly, Like a quick kiss, inaudible, Amidst the leaning teak high rising sills, The ones, in funny places, On your head, feel cooler. Wind blew that day, Not the kind that jumble, Your hair, wildly, Like a tree, in autumn, Dancing riotously, before its death. But, the ones that,  Whooshes blindly, drunkenly, Like that beautiful, you saw, On the grass that was rather yellower, Wallowing, laughingly, lazily, In the dress which shone brighter than her smile. He smiled that day, Not the kind that spin, Your head, magically, Like the tresses, under the sun, Of that woman, in the red dress. But, the one that, Was slight, and effortless, Like the way, you breathed, From across that table, When his eyes, from his coffee, Buoyed, wickedly, unknowingly, In the light which was carna

The Chronicles of April Levesque...VIII

So. Much long gone. And so was April. More than a year since I last wrote her. Quite literally. And yes, Raj, you were right to point out April in my last post about all the special women in my life. April is definitely one of them. You can read the previous parts  here . Just scroll from the bottom up to read in order.  People set alarms on their phones. April's own body was like the bird that cuckooed every next hour. With the killer headache, she rose at four in the morning. Habits , she thought. Staring at the ceiling with a hangover that made her decide instantly in a matter of less than a second, that she'll never let alcohol in her vicinity, she felt a warmth beside her. An alien feeling clamped onto her heart. Last night's nuances played like a reel in her head. She'd allowed him access to something, she never had to any man before. Ever . And now, she had to play safe. She was much too aware of the condition she'd been kidnapped into. And much too awar

Them. Always.

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"You inspire me, Akanksha. Your willpower is your greatest strength." "You always have the choice to make your call. Tolerate all this or walk away." "Babe, there's always a winner and a loser. You know, there's always a pit in which we want to see someone, and then it's you who gets trapped in the pit ultimately. AND, it's you who'll know the way out. So you'll always have to find a way to figure. Don't every be ashamed of falling in love with the wrong person. People aren't ever bad, they're just different." "I'm here. Always. And I'm not going to let you be miserable for anything. It's important for people to understand that you can need them more than they do." "Don't try too hard. It's not always necessary. It'll pass. Everything does." "Don't ever pity yourself. Smile, Pick up your baggage and keep walk

Don't Say. Say.

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Overly sweet coffee, and the underestimated bland tea, Broken spines of a book, and fallen leaves of the gingery tree, Boisterous silences, and the straining piano notes, Broken phone networks, and prudently hearted notes, Loquacious senses, and sardonic tongues, Unknown ignorances, and methodical glances, Stolen truths, and concealing lies, Surreptitious smiles, and reluctant cries, Starry nights, and tacitly retired drives, Solitary overhauls, and conjoined cautions, Supervised footsteps, and the agreeable wind chimes, Blistering softness, and the disquieting light, Fleeting sheets, and dented bolsters, Desiccated  throats, and clammily sultry bodies, Unkempt love, and the copious confessions, The incessant denials, and the fate's laughter in your face.  Oh, the inevitability of things. Reminiscent, Ak.  

Fingers Never Lie

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How different were the two? Like the darkness of a liquor chocolate, Against the dewy cinnamon bagels? Or the roaring of the sea, Against the hidden hushes of an avalanche, How different were their voices? Like the inconsistency of your consistent black coffee, Against the bitter carnality of that cabernet? Or, the squelchy parcel from the rains, Against the velvety pats of snow against your face? How different were their eyes when they looked at you? Like the ones which gleam simply in desire, Against the one screaming out to you in need? Or the way a child clings to his toy, Against a weeping bride holding onto her father's shoulders? How different were their hands? Like the robust hand from the heist of a ravenous man, Against the hands that devour you under the sheets? Or the ones whose touch make you whinge, Against the ones which make you close your eyes in conviction? How different were their seasons? Like the sun's fervour fluxing your cream