Falling in love and all that.

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[Photo Credit: Weronika Izdebska]

Falling in love with you again and again and again is my only obsession.

I’ve loved you and for that I’ve to suffer infinitely.

What is this warm feeling that is never receding in my heart  ?

Women like seasons have come, but the sight of you is the first drop of monsoon.

My heart aches and my eyes fill up every-time a memory of your touch breezes through my mind.

Oh, how much I yearn to touch your gentle dusky skin, plant kisses on your forearm.

Oh, how you become one with the wind and bring showers of yellow flowers to my windows, how the air delights in your presence and how the earth giggles with your timid footsteps.

Oh, how can I stop crying and smiling at the same time, when the thoughts about you flood my mind ? What is this feeling of being full and empty at the same time ? Is this love ? What is this wave of melancholic sadness that ebbs in my soul ? Is this love ?

My soul is still with you. When you walk by, oh, how it tries to prance back into my body . All I can do is whisper ‘stay at home’.

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Frisking for life.

He doesn’t sleep very well in the nights. He wakes up at 1:46 every night and gulps down a glass of water.

Better.

He closes his eyes and tries to shut down the buzzing noise in his head. He works as a security guard at a mall. He frisks people at the entrance, his hands lingering over men’s chests and pockets.  No clouds of thoughts drift through his head as his hands hold their bodies. Just the buzzing noise.
When he closes his eyes, he can still feel the infinitesimally small curves of their waists, the slants of their arms and the tightness of their buttocks.

When he goes back home, he holds his wife close. Breathing through her neck, he searches for that cold place of comfort, long lost. Touching her fingertips, he helplessly gropes for the kindness of love. Kissing her lips, he smothers his face into the desert sand. Sometimes, he wonders if life has slipped out of his fingertips and found its home in the pockets, wallets and arms of strangers.

He doesn’t sleep very well in the nights. He wakes up at 1:46 every night and gulps down a glass of water. He brushes his wife’s hair and like a wave receding, a subtle sensation passes through his hands to his mouth.

Only the lifeless could quench his thirst.

Russian sex-tion of the library.

‘Have you been to the Russian section ? ‘, he asked, hoping to start the conversation.

‘I’ve seen it, but haven’t gone through the books there’, she said trying not to meet his eyes.

Standing in the Russian section filled his lungs with a certain sense of pride, which only true communists would feel seeing such a large collection of Russian literature.

Seeing Trotsky and Chekhov sleeping together on the dusty yellow mattress pages under the hardbound velvety skies made him sigh in pleasure.

‘Close your eyes and run your fingers through the spines of the the books’, he said pointing at the books.

‘What ? ‘

‘Do it, please ?’

Amused, she closed her eyes and placed her finger tips on the spines of the books and ran her fingers through them, very slowly.

Her forearms revealed the web of blue brooks which led to her elbows. He traced them with his eyes,came closer and put his fingers on hers’. She stopped in surprise and turned around.

Looking straight at her brown eyes, he inched his head closer to hers’. He held her against the stack of books . Like a gentle song which has a rhythm of its own, he breathed down her neck.

With every breath, she felt her chest clench a little more and her nipples becoming slowly erect. Her hands went toward the back of his neck and pulled his head closer. A hickey on her neck.
With the pain of the hickey still burning  in back of her mind, she pushed his head against hers and kissed him .  The air was becoming heavy with the strange aroma of sex.

Bringing his fingers near her cheeks, he glided down to her neck. And like a river flowing, his hands slipped under her dress and pressed her breasts gently.

She closed her eyes and pulled a few books down in utter pleasure. Her knees going weak, she held on to him like a prayer.

With a furor of energy, she climbed upon him, her legs around his hips. Their breaths clouding the room. She lifted her dress and pulled her panties down. And then he entered her.

Between the rickety shelves of Gorky and Dostoevsky, she heaved the moans of pleasure. With every vibration, she felt the room closing down on her.  Between her legs, the literature made love, she felt.

The dusty smell of the room made him sweat more and gave him a quaint feeling. Suddenly, he closed his eyes and the books fell silent. All the words stopped and her heaves were the only song in the air.

A gentle breeze gently tickled their ears and grazed past the books.

Perhaps, for the first time, these books laughed and lost their seriousness.

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