Bibliophile

Pleasures of love-making

I drink back my poison words

All roads lead to you, even those I took to forget you.

No matter whether we like it or not, there will always be someone who gets left behind, someone whose love will be left wanting. Nothing happens the way we want it to be. You like him? Ahh, but he is not the one for you. You will have to live with someone who doesn't even know you the way he does. But alas, he will never be yours, because he has found that someone with whom he wants to argue for the rest of his life.

I am no master in this art of love. Yet, every time I see you, my heart contracts, my lungs forget to make oxygen, my hands shake like some bird struggling to get out of a cage, my legs go limp like marshmallows and my soul shatters only to get glued up again. I try not to show how badly I want you, how strongly I adore you. When you play with your raven-coloured hair, I get mesmerized by the beauty of it. When you smile with your eyes, I hold myself back from touching you. You are fire, my darling. And like a moth, I am drawn to you. You are the sky, and I am an injured bird. I see you talking to the moon at nights and I can’t help but wonder how lonely you must be. In these past few years, I have learnt things about you that no one knows. How you like your space, how delicate your hands are, how much obsessed you are with the colour olive, how you like your tea cold and not hot (I question you for that every day), how you like to go on the roof once everyone is asleep and gaze at the moon, for you think only she can understand how lonely you actually are, how you smile when someone mentions any great poet, like you know all of his works line by line, word by word, how you have this diary that you carry around everywhere– to cafes, to bookstores, to that sunset point that you adore so much and finally, how you carry infinite love in your heart, that has now started to turn into grief. Oh, my dear love, oh my world, I would light myself up on fire if you were cold, I would serve my soul on a plate to you, if you were hungry, I would become a paper, if you ever craved to write. Oh, the things I would do for you are indescribable and unspeakable. Just know, if all the red vanishes from this world, I would pour my blood in a glass for you to paint.

I am Lilith. The greater demon, the monster of night. I don't hide in the shadows but dance on the blood bathed streets with my hands raised to the hells above. You ask me if I have ever loved and I laugh, like a fallen angel, beautiful and deadly. Yes I have loved. The sun, the light. But the night is too much in love with me, so I stay. My home is the moon, I own it. We drink champagne from skeleton cups, me and the moon, grieving our love for the sun. But oh, he is pure and monsters like me must love the dark nights.

His touch burnt on my skin

I wanted to say a lot of things. But all I could speak was his name.

The storm was gone. Then why did I feel uneasy? Your absence was like a knife twisting in my soul. I didn't know what to do, or how to forget all the memories that we had made. Won't lie. I still wished maybe you'd come back. Maybe, just maybe you missed me too. The distance hurt you as well. Didn't it? Melancholy became my best friend. We talked about you over drinks. She made me drink a bottle of champagne and I confessed that I still missed you.

After days of exuberance