Wednesday, April 18, 2012


The lingering warmth
On the tips of my fingers
Where yours had stayed
I now feel its aftertaste
Like the effect of a Schubert piece
Beauty wrought in longing
Like some things which don’t have a name
Your delicious mouth
And its aftertaste
Like coffee on a rainy Sunday evening
So that when I go away
There is still a mark
That continues to say
Those words we whisper
Into each other’s ears
Amidst peals of laughter
Stolen kisses and silent embraces
Perhaps on your unmade bed
The imprint of your scent
On my clothes
Also lies the aftertaste.
Till I swim back
Into your arms again.

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