I 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”.
Leave a Reply