Do not read further; these lines are not for you.
They are just precipitates, like curdled milk
Lying, forgotten, in my frozen shelves.
I do not conceive you in my mind any more.
I do not remember your smile, the glimmer of love
That shadowed your eyes; I do not recollect your face.
Warm, was your breath; moist, your lips.
In my large palms, your breasts hardened.
Your fingers trembled as you sought me
Your legs parted, inviting, in submission.
As I ran my fingers over you, your body hair stood up
As if in protest, as if to resist, but in vain.
How was I to know that your cries were in joy
How was I to glean that you burnt in ecstasy?
I never could, you know, submerge myself
In the so-called sublimity of love.
Not untrue in my love, but I couldn’t
Accept that the sublimation of my love for you
Lay in this act of making love.
Making love? I was in love, why should I make it?
Yet I wonder, what is it that I loved in you?
Was it the person or the persona, the mind or the body,
That I had desired more; maybe both, maybe it is that
I wanted it all, with such a hunger, such an appetite
I had – I wanted to eat, if I could, suck you in
So that you spread and flowed all over and inside me,
So that I bled you, my sweat stank of you
My lips and yours one
My spittle and yours one
Me in you, you in me
Mine and thine, indistinguishable.
Now you know how much I had loved you.
*********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 01.03.2011