am getting used to being
drunk on you
“a literary recluse”
so to say
they speak of me this way.
I have been drunk on the open book
that is you.

Words, words, words and more words
and it feels like they are

fume wine

made to intoxicate me.
I watch your lips move
in familiar shapes somehow made

strange.
alluring.
unreal.

They pull me in.
Why?
I do not have time to

think.

I am drawn in.
craving.

more.

I could stare at you all day,
every day
staying in,
at the patterns in your eyes
at the intensity behind your stares
in those rare moments
when they seem to be
trying to see into my soul

When you said
“your face makes me sad”
and I,
I laughed and choked on my water
and I said, “wow, what a thing to say!”
and you traced my face, each inch

every inch

slowly

with your eyes,

like you were stripping my face

naked
(if that is possible)

and taking in my contours
drinking in my details
your eyes seemed to want
something

more

they wanted to touch me slowly,

I could tell,
and you said
“I can see the sadness behind your smile”,
and I
laughed

shyly
embarrassed
trying to brush it off,

And you looked at me
from under your lashes,
smouldering,
trying to know what I am

keeping
from
you.

You “felt”
and I could

see
you
feel.

I loved that.

You said,
I smelled
like
raspberry syrup in white chocolate mocha
I do not know if you noticed,
my breath caught that time,

and it
hitches
every single time

you breath me in

bringing your face
right near my neck
and the top of my head
I am tempted to lean into
you
and to let you

just, breath.

And so,
you see,
once when I told you that
“The best way to be
immortalised
is to

break

a poet’s heart”,
what I meant.

Because, have no doubt
I will be

broken

when you leave.
But I like to think
I will patch my cracks
with gold
and somehow win

But maybe,

I lie

to myself.
Maybe,
I just want to,
for
this
moment,

just,

“live”.