• anon
    Love

    A perfect lover

    An apple ripens, a flower blooms and withers, water freezes and melts, wind comes to a standstill, wine becomes wholesome, a song becomes a memory, a kiss becomes softer with age. I have loved ‘perfect’ women, and they changed. And I changed. We didn’t know what perfect was anymore. I gravitate towards disarming dents, scars of war, fierce rage and undying thirst for what lies ahead. It’s an eternal all-consuming fire, as a person molts, breaking through her own past self. Few things matter. And she is far from perfect, she is flawed, she screams, she cries, she is afraid, she doubts, she loves with abandon, loyal to a fault,…

  • Love

    Like a Bird

    I hold us with an open hand.As she lays wet and heavy, poignant.Like an evening sky, twilight.But you can neither tell how black is the nightnor how light is the dawn. She promises sincere mischief,whatever that means.She clasps like a lover.She bites like a mistress.She promises she will kiss the old me.And asks whether I will kiss the old her. I hold her with an open hand.She eats me whole. — I have been looking at things wrong.Like a bird in the sky,as wide and as high I can,but only as wide and only as high I can. She flies elsewhere, rides the winds I do not follow.She jumps into…

  • art by agnes-cecile
    Love

    My clumsy poetry

    I waited for you, expecting you to provide sanity amid all the insanity around. But you had things to do. And I gave in to the madness. And before I stopped waiting for you, I knew I had stopped waiting for myself. — Look around. A pretty face. And one more. Many more. A new fancy everyday. Whom would you kiss? Whom would you nibble at? Whose skin would you bite away and lick every naked crevice you can find as they shiver and surrender before the beast that you are. Whose hand would you hold? Whose eyes would you get lost into? Whose hair would you run your fingers…

  • Courtesy: An Le
    Love,  People

    Fall is here. It fills me.

    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…

  • Through the form of prose on Frankaffe, Sushrut Munje discusses the comfort of a gaze that's held, a drink that's shared and a bed that's cuddled on.
    Love

    Affection

    Share your bed, the blanket, the warmth. Shedding layers with conversations doesn't get more real, as the two of us understand what we are, the way we are. And it's perfectly alright, because the biases are gone, long forgotten. They exist for the outside world, not for someone you long to be wrapped around, and squeezed. Share your bed, it's your space and not everyone's feet look as pink in the sheets.