in the leftovers
of your smell, waiting for you
in the everlasting darkness.
I ache for you:
a perfect amalgamation
of flesh and tender bones
that must have bathed
in a rain of fire in her afterlives.
In morning your slither into our bed in that black dress of yours burning the dichotomy of the dissolved night and the receding day.
I then kiss, make love and regret nothing
like the human who discovered fire.
© Shashank Bhardwaj