Collarbones

I loved his collarbones more than anything else in the world. You could see them peeping through his shirt when the top two buttons, and not a single extra one, was kept open. Not jutting like famine victims', they were however, solidly prominent. They revealed more than what they hid and I could easily picture his incredibly chiselled rib-cage. Reminded me of Jesus Christ, they always did. Not an ounce of extra flesh clothed those exquisite bones that seemed crafted out of rock. Rocks that bore diamonds.
The softness of my femininity yearned to be framed squished and destroyed in the rawness of that hard primal primitive and timeless stolidity.
And when sweat glistened on the surface of that bronzed chest - the chest that hid his pulsating throb - yes, I was crushed. And ruined for life.
His collarbones ruined me.

A story need not have a story after all.

Winter of my discontent

It’s difficult not to think of her - especially in winter.

...Her paper-thin hands that crumbled in my grip like dried brown leaves, leaving behind a whiff of moist sweat.
...Her veins that stretched from her breasts to her face like rivers drawn on text-book maps.
...The soft beating of her heart, that I stayed up all night trying to harmonise with mine.
...The pink of her cream that merged with the grey of my cigarette smoke.
...Her freezing cold toes that tingled mine under the blanket, till they had mingled with the all the warmth in my blood
...The transluscence of the skin on her neck that made the act of drinking water seem like the playing of some ancient musical instrument


It’s difficult…

…One of these winter afternoons I would like to look out of my window and have the tree look back at me, defrosted clean of the icicles of memory.

Soon…

Chaapa dukkho maapa shukh...

"There is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one's own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes..."
-Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

To live with the knowledge of having wronged is infinitely more painful than that of being wronged.
For, there is not the slightest hope of retribution: the single factor that marks the glorious vanquished from the ignominous victor.
I'd rather be Hector than Paris.

Ex-es on the Why Axis

It was all perfect…perfect…JUST perfect. He had never felt anything as beautiful as this before.Never felt anything that would so completely suffuse his entirety with the essence of another human being.

Each time, however, she would bring her face down in a moment of intense passion to meet his mouth, all he could see was the same face lowered in the exact same angle over the one she had loved before. Yes, this is how she moves when in love, he thought…whenever in love, he visualised.
This is how she clings to the shoulder in ecstasy.
This is how she closes her eyes when kissed.
This is how she arches languorously when caressed.
This is how she daintily traces the contours of her lover’s arms with the tip of her fingers…

And suddenly he no longer was part of the making of love. He was a voyeur to her past.
A puppet participant.

Intimacy is felt best when you steal moments out of a crowded scape...