Split seams.


Parting shots


You are still seeing her, aren't you?

Women, have a knack for seizing doubt
And squeezing its throat

So this one day she's sitting on the bed
And I am watching the tranquil ebbing of her breast
Her bare back striped in two by the bed-side lamp
The sheen less glint of her earring through shiny unruly black showers
And somewhere from her trenches bubbles up a question
She's asked me several times

I am so ready with an answer I keep quiet
She eyes my bow-brows and pointy chin
Something dies in them

One thing about me, I am a sucker for performance
For leaving inscriptions
And she hates to clap

She's learnt to sniff it on me and nip it in the bud

I bottle my boiling silence
I let myself be intrigued
By the very long strand of hair
Lying abandoned on my damp chest
So straight it looks like an incision

"Rip-off!" she gurgles slowly with jelly lips, hard eyes and
Such offended charm
That I reach up caress her warm cottony cheek
Rub the tactile tuft along her neckline
And pull her down on my shoulder

Do you or do you not she murmurs

I hate talking when I am not dressed

My hands roam
I can't stand the hardening nipple
I take her
Till
Till she slaps me off her

This is no way to show me

I am laughing as I fly down the stairs
My torso, still in a triangle

That, was the last I saw of her
I promise. I will never leave through the window again.
Oh! Did I tell you?
My elbow needs a haircut





Poetry by Arranging_words
Read 856 times
Written on 2005-12-28 at 09:28

Tags Women  Hair  Silence 

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