Our stories
in the back of my eyelids,
to be lived again and again,
Everytime I close my eyes.


[photo credit: rocio montoya]


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.


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.


Letters to women I have loved.


Source : Pinterest


the very thought of you makes me warm. In this winter, you have become my hearth. You fill my heart with the warmth of a hot coffee mug in a rainy afternoon.

Your tresses like a gentle water fall makes my heart brood over like a summer cloud. The antics I do with you is nothing but to truly know you and paradoxically to forget you, for what is love but the constant evolution of the mystery of the other person ?

Under the cavern of stars and your jet black hair, while you were hovering my body reverberating with me inside you, I saw god. I became a Sufi dervish whirling on your navel.

And your body becomes fluid in my hands and all I do is recourse its path into the night.

The thirst for your lips is ever growing in me. Our home is underneath the stars, between the streets of wild moaning, in the alley of hickeys, near the junction of ejaculations.

There is not a single day this month I’ve not thought about you. Even when your hands stop talking, your eyes, your eyes.

I remember how we got lost in the seas of our pupils and how we swam back every time we drifted too far away.

Maybe we are lovers who are just not meant to be. All the music we shared will forever be in the mix tape of my soul and each time I hear your name, the far reach of your voice, the warmth of your touch,  I will press the play button of the cassette and perhaps we can dance yet again under the moonlight.

You will forever remain a song in my heart that I will refuse to sing.

Yours, always,