Breathe. Inhale. Feel.

It poured, that day,

Not the kind that puncture,
Your skin, slightly,
Like the injuries, in the shower,
You trace, after you make love.
But, the ones that,
Fall indolently, nonchalantly,
Like a quick kiss, inaudible,
Amidst the leaning teak high rising sills,
The ones, in funny places,
On your head, feel cooler.

Wind blew that day,
Not the kind that jumble,
Your hair, wildly,
Like a tree, in autumn,
Dancing riotously, before its death.
But, the ones that, 
Whooshes blindly, drunkenly,
Like that beautiful, you saw,
On the grass that was rather yellower,
Wallowing, laughingly, lazily,
In the dress which shone brighter than her smile.

He smiled that day,
Not the kind that spin,
Your head, magically,
Like the tresses, under the sun,
Of that woman, in the red dress.
But, the one that,
Was slight, and effortless,
Like the way, you breathed,
From across that table,
When his eyes, from his coffee,
Buoyed, wickedly, unknowingly,
In the light which was carnally dreamier than ever.

Flushed,

Ak.