beauty, creative-writing, Death, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Dream

A memory of your smell :
an enslavement, so clandestine.
It tunes my arteries to sing,
like the waves sing,
for purposes unknown.

I ebb away , from this nonchalant madness
and turn into a moon-kissed star dust,
wishing there were no sun or stars,

Cause I now abhor the lick of light.
It separates us unknowingly.
How come I still dream of you again?
At what cost?
At what price?

© Shashank Bhardwaj

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beauty, creative-writing, Death, Fiction & Poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, Writings

Teach

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 an island forgotten, 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 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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