The Silence of My Voice

I could see his hair jump up in attention the moment his fingers touched the craggy, cross-grained externality of the canvas. He was close enough, and his eyes closer enough for comfort. I saw the derrière of the cloth arch out when the pulp of his fingers pressed down the cloth, smudging the charcoal. His eyes roamed over my calves, and I could see his pupils expatiating on the nudging bone and the soft sinuosity backing it up.  Working his way up the softness of my legs, he made me feel unashamed of myself. He looked at my legs, but he saw me.  I heard his breathing hitch and mature like a wildfire when his eyes dived along the convexity of my buttocks and the sudden concavity of my belly. He squinted his eyes on approaching my navel, and sighed loudly on seeing the ring there. A desolate smirk worked its way up his mouth as he transited his attention back to the canvas. He took in all of my ass in a glance, but he saw me. His eyes licked their way ar...

Why, peter out from labelling my opaque coffee so sinister, when it's your breaths that constantly obscure its fidelity to me. Same breaths, your husky breaths, which wrote stories like Braille over my shoulders I still read. And stop secreting behind the book when you clearly are thinking about licking the wetness that has cascaded down my throat and is snuggly leaning off my cleavage - which would still blush of you. And my chest would swell from the slightest prompting of your voice. Stop rummaging hands through your hair! They're tethering my heart and lungs in multitudes of knots inside my chest. I remember the time my hands shuddered from tugging at your hair as they perused through all your apprehensions. Did you just scrutinise me why I think you did? I know. I remember this song, too. It's the one you raged out on my throat to dampen the fire in it, which smouldered with a flame, but no smoke. And your foxy eyes, are always a different colour - darker, whenever y...

Haunt me, Unlike the ways of spirits, Imprinting my soul by yours, Haunt me, Leaving your scent unto me, Like a room filled out by baked apples, Haunt me,  Until I start hallucinating, And haunt me, As if you truly follow me, Haunt me, By the sweet tones of your piano, Whereby I sat watching you play, Haunt me,  With the bitterness of the morning coffee, With the torn pages of the book, You could never read to me, Haunt me, again, With all the singularly eyed jokes, And the laughter that followed, Haunt me, still, Through the seconds, When you helped me replace my guitar strings, Haunt me,  Haunt me, till I hum the tunes you made, Haunt me, until the edge of madness, And haunt me,  Till I bleed of you. Been long gone, eh? Some inspiration it took, this one. Buzzed, Ak.