She had just sung a song for me, a melody of her own making. She had sung it with all abandon. And now she was looking right at me. Waiting.
I saw her smiling wide. Lush brown waves falling over her shoulders. Eyes moist, and bright as sunshine, so brown, a rich roast. I smiled back, lost for words.
Wondering which words would aptly describe the earth shaking beneath my feet. What words to describe the smell of her spring in these cold autumn winds. That I lived every note she had written, tracing them through my mad stories. How do I say that her song had taken me on a maddening flight far above and deep below, far away and deep within? How do I say my eyes are now moist as well?
“Love it. So much.” I said, continuing the slight smile. “It is beautiful.”
Life can be overwhelming.
It’s easy to forget why you are where you are.
Why you are doing what you are doing.
Life evolves so fast, priorities change without us keeping track.
That’s when we pause, and realign.
All is well. All has always been well.
We are poetry. Loose pages held together by sheer will. Complete enough to make sense. Incomplete enough to intrigue. And we change, every single day. How will we ever be a book?
I was frowning as John Travolta flew through the air, with Nicolas Cage in hot pursuit. We were cuddled together, wrinkled white sheets. I was frowning, and looking up, she caressed it. Eased me out. She knew I took life way too seriously. I always felt she didn’t. I didn’t frown again that night.
An espresso is what espresso does. Sip it, takes you to a high, brings you crashing down and you reach out for another one. Unless you are an espresso. In that case, you exist. Potent. Bitter. Delicious.
And a woman, in form of cream, would only make you softer for the season to come. She won’t take you bitter. She will take you the way she wants it. Her white softness leads to an elemental change for the better.
Love is glorious in all its forms. Ravenous lust or handheld warmth. It makes me a storyteller. I associate memories and places with smells and sounds, with colours and songs.
A wet Chennai morning for me is ultimate romance – the feeling of being at home, smell of freshly steamed Idlis wafting through, the summery spice of her dense hair across my face, bodies entangled, her taut skin glowing with tiny beads of sweat, and the comfort of white sheets. Probably a Carnatic prayer in the distance. It is crazy how reckless and euphoric love makes me, and how it makes me stumble, the sheer number of times it makes me fall.
The mad thing? I need to love me first.