Sunday, 1 February 2015


The goosebumps on his nape had signalled me that he was familiar of my ubiquity in there. I'd witnessed him residing under the same lamp, on the same bulbous and stout pieced wood for years. He had yet another Dan Brown in his hands; his beguiling fingers flirting with the pages still sent spasms through me.
It pushed me back to the time when I disintegrated, every vein holding my being liquefying into his. I reeked more of him than me; he reeked more of me than himself.  Trickle by trace, my incandescent breaths over his dank torso, obfuscating my beginning and his end into one. His hands ducking at every curve I curve through, turning me into a corpse of molten flambeau. Never a time when we settled for the two of us being the two. Letting countless mistakes happen, fingers exploring out the closeness of the two being one. Fiery water, boiling ice, spending all of ourselves onto one another.
He eyes that pretty across the table. Digging back in his book, resorting to the guilt that arose like bile in his throat. I float myself through him, his eyes shut, recognising my smell, hushing through his breath, I murmur, "Believe."
He smiles, and changes his table.

In dire needs of it sometimes,