The Silence of My Voice

Hello, everybody! And it's Blogmas Day Five! I had a very quiet day, as it happens. I had a goodly amount of sleep, and spent the entire day with my father, frolicking and laughing - and it was the best day ever! After we returned home, I have also been editing and customising my WordPress blog which I'd started but, sadly, abandoned it for a very long time, as I had this one, as well. My yesterday's conversation wasn't much of one since I quoted the lyrics to some of my all time favourite Gulzar and some other tracks. Since I stopped at wants and needs, and I was in a mood for a bit of fiction. There you go. She peeked from the canyon the inconsistent heights of the books created, and saw him. She adjusted her glasses and yet again, there was a befitting tilt too his amber eyes as he looked for a book. She wondered if he'd pry the tattoos around her ribs in an agnate fashion. He heightened his prying, and her mouth watered from the temptation to taster ...

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 ...

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...

The hard muscled shoulders were broad in keeping with his height, but it was more the overall virility of the man was so disturbing. And attractive. And definitely scary.  She tried to concentrate, she really did, but she was acutely aware of a hard male thigh against hers, the 5 o'clock stubble on his chin, which accentuated his brand of aggressive masculinity tenfold, and, not least, the bigness of him.  And she was startled back to reality as the conductor shouted out the next stop. Luck, it seemed, had never befriended her. *** It wasn't love that brought his entire brood rushing to his bedside. When his estranged wife, three sons - two legitimate, one bastard - and, yes, even his former daughter-in-law dropped everything at his beck and call, it was not out of devotion but rather sheer disbelief that the man who had launched a financial empire and sculpted their own lives might turn out to be a mere mortal like the rest of them. Time, was no more a friend of his....

Amidst the breathless blabber of shares and finances floating over the massive oak slab, blanketed shamelessly by a traffic of ceramics with mouthwatering, pocket-unfriendly food, he gawped powerlessly toward her face. She had a 50s hairstyle, with her hair mysteriously covering the left side of her face. The opaque ringlets of her frenetic tuft made the coiffure look almost uncouth. Only, it didn't look rude on her - somehow, the lush gloom flowing from her crown flattered the grainy freckles around her nose. He was certain, it was fishy the way she'd styled her hair. He watched her move, table to table, with an insouciance that wasn't, in the least, shoddy. She wasn't beautiful, or pretty; well, not in the literal sense of it. He wanted her to wait at his table, wanted to see her up close. He wanted to notice her freckles, if they crowded just her nose or were they lightly sprinkled all over her face. Unable to tame his resistance any further, he asked for a refill ...

Overly sweet coffee, and the underestimated bland tea, Broken spines of a book, and fallen leaves of the gingery tree, Boisterous silences, and the straining piano notes, Broken phone networks, and prudently hearted notes, Loquacious senses, and sardonic tongues, Unknown ignorances, and methodical glances, Stolen truths, and concealing lies, Surreptitious smiles, and reluctant cries, Starry nights, and tacitly retired drives, Solitary overhauls, and conjoined cautions, Supervised footsteps, and the agreeable wind chimes, Blistering softness, and the disquieting light, Fleeting sheets, and dented bolsters, Desiccated  throats, and clammily sultry bodies, Unkempt love, and the copious confessions, The incessant denials, and the fate's laughter in your face.  Oh, the inevitability of things. Reminiscent, Ak.  

Have you ever known, what coming home is like? How would you,  When all you've done, is wander, Through every lane, searching, For truths, fighting them with lies, Pulling your own strings apart, Heartbeat by heartbeat, You will never know, What coming home is like. Have you ever known, The warmth of another soul, The comfort of the company, Of another's silence? When all you've done, Is run away, Thinking of everyone as crowd, Selling your heart out, On cheap street take-outs, While only gathering the lonesomeness, Others had on offer, You will never know, The warmth of another soul. Have you ever known, The disgrace of two parted lovers? How would you, When you believed you two, Could survive apart, But what for, really? Because all you did, Was be terrified, but awed, You will never know, The disgrace, the ache, the abomination, Of two parted lovers. I miss this space a hell more often now....

"I hunger for your sleek laugh, and your hands the colour of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty." She still sat by her window on the granite slab. That was where she always sat when she commenced writing something new each time. The deadline was around the weekend and she hadn't started her new piece at all. She'd been one of those lightening delights since the first day she'd entered office. And her columns were a treat for both the magazine and the readers. She was any editor's dream writer. Anything she wrote had to bring a smile to even the most disinterested creature on the planet. Writing always came naturally to her. But she felt lost today. Distracted. All she could think of was.. "A man who prides himself on never committing the sin, has never met a woman with brains."   And with that being the last sentence of the chapter, she bookmarked the page and placed the book carefully aside on the tiny circu...

Like their usual Friday evenings after college, they hopped on to their conventional café for their share of evening coffee and gossip. Occupying the same corner aligned with the picture window, that overlooked the sunset every summer evening sharp at 7:05 pm, was always reserved for them each weekend without fail. Ria, Sid and Om. They weren't exactly the three musketeers every college had, but they surely were the couple and the best friend trio that was. Coiled against the bend of the couch, Ria looked out towards the sunset as her toes clinked with each other in a settled rhythm. This was always the favourite part of his week. Sid had always loved the colour of her black hair, which gleamed a bronze sometimes. The inflamed sunset light bouncing off her flawless honey dew skin was what had left him breathless the first time he'd seen her in college. Taking in the colours that her petite dignitary put at play, he realised Ria was staring back at him.  Meanwh...