Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Poems, Poetry, Writings

You

The curves begin to melt,
Its astounding we remember
everything we touch.
So your memory is a trace of fingertips,
From the callous neck, to the sculpted collar bones, you are a like a hidden lake in a forgotten island, where I dip to forget myself,
The curves extrapolate like rays of sunlight never knowing why,
From the breasts to the fine arch of the back,
Everything dissolves again and again,
My hands aren’t wet with your touch?
Are you really what they call as magic?

For my hands disappear within you,
Tracing every tips without whispering to you,
Touching everywhere without telling you?
Making it a dream, with dreaming you,
Do you feel it all, or should I be dissolving you?
Not by touch, not by shyness
But by a pool of shyness and leaving you?
I never knew how to withdraw, so the dress is leaving you?
Maniacal? Sensuous? Are you mad?
All sound same. While your eyes teach you.

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creative-writing, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Dreamlands

Oh what a blessing it is to see you in the daylight,
Blue sky, green grass, and your skin, it glows,
I love the hot days where we stare the warmth, in our eyes.
I love the cool nights , where before we fall onto the beds, hoping to travel into the caressed dreamland

Ends decipher themselves,
As we trace the origins,
of us coming close,
and forgetting to waltz back
Into this slippery reality

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creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, Poems, Poetry, Writings

Winter Oranges

You sit in the garden
swinging to and fro,
a shining sun
brilliant yellow with warmth
brightly painted oranges in your hand
or are they tangerines?
I do not know
for I was not invited
to this winter feast.

You sit with the others,
peals of laughter,
seeds of conversations
leak into my room somehow.
The pulp of the oranges
dripping from your lips
as you discard the peels
dulled by time
turning bitter and dry.

Let them fall to the dirty ground
uncared for and
unnecessary.
I forget their existence, the sun
and the warmth.

I remember us,
the pulp stained lips
and a thirst for never missing such feasts,
where your eyes inch this close to me.
where the breath turns citrus in unison.

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dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Poems, poetry, Writings

Flowers on Fire

The subways are empty
at the dead of the night.
Their exits recoil themselves
in the ashes of the ashes.

I whiff a pure smoke of a forgotten memory
and let it breed within my substructured brain.

A graveyard of cigarettes greets my shoes.
The lights go hazy as the winds turn warmer.
Another dull night has been devoured today,
with the help of a fifth of liquid courage.

Darkness needs darkness.
Its an immortal curse,
an undying thirst.
It travels with an agonizing silence
from the corpse of an empty bottle
to my eyes, staring an abyss

I wanted to curse everyone
with my eyes, while slitting their throats
by my tongue.

But I reach home dejected
whirling myself into an abyss
of nothingness.

I try the usual grind,
to type something beautiful,
but the words have escaped my prison ago.
I need a new remorse, to vomit a new grief.

So I set the whole garden on fire
and wait.

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