The Randomness of Intimacy
By Nishi Chawla
 

You call my voice out from the caves of my sleep,

Fixated with hymns of longing, you bring them

Alive with what seems like something anticipated,

Remembered. A stab somewhere.

Your graph charts a nice loop

Chaos, possibilities of a lotus wilting,

Sobbing, my left knee throbs every time you

Go into the sullen trenches of self-created mess

The knee hurting, caught up in bittersweet loss.

I weep at my freedom, stare at street lights,

As the city drenches the burnished tulips, drip

With nostalgia dressings. Unable to sense the

Water that surges. The inner core seems broken.

When I smell the bottom rung of my

Thoughts, they seem to look at me with

A peculiar sense of satisfaction. Untouched,

As though our lips have met.

At various times when our bodies locked,

The sunlight stole the pleasure; exchanged

It with a musty smell from which we

Shrank. Congealed by our ardor.

Just the naked smell of our hearts,

That had lost its grip on forgotten

Hooks, driven by the silent urge

To flow along.

Pleasure is an unsightly term,

Hardened by the high heat of endless

Cycles of repetition, exposed by

Our leaking lithesome fuels.

I sometimes rage, an outrage,

My voice gets sucked up, sinks

Into the shadows of your own fire,

We jostle, like burning peacocks.

The skies do not grow bigger, hearing

Us howl; only hesitate, behind giant

Shoals of grey clouds that whimper,

Glow pale red. Risk their chances.

As I careen over your sternum, weigh

My own, glance up the doorstep of your

Ageing eyes, struggle to free you of my

Pain, like a trashcan rolling, loud.

Sealed tight within your scalped mind,

Overhead pitching and jostling, the skies

Tug at, and you. Then they tumble over,

Secure our raw boned kisses. Ripped.

Like the blue feathers tugging, free

Like the last leaves that feel the chill

Air, feel the sparkle, the hard pull.

Beyond the fire, of you.

Listening to hard calls of desire,

The tongue is worn down, mouths

Full of blistered grace, letting go

Would be a sin, as the skies cower.