Well, nothing historical like
Roman Elegies in this journey,
But it still has a story that
stretches back to the days,
When I used to love its amorphous
sharpness.
White, or black, or pink, or
yellow, colours adored me,
When you were on my lips, playing
vivaciously,
Dipping in me with a tippy
playfulness.
Today always waited for tomorrow,
in jocular anticipation,
When it will be the time of the day
of emancipation,
In unison of us, and your piquant
acess.
Having you was always complete and
the feeling was so intrinsic,
Penetrating deep, melting in my thoughts
at the moment,
That I would have you before all
caress.
Scalding or piercing, yes, at
times you would intently act so,
But then you had become a tale so
personified in my soul,
That I would always look beyond, inside
me, for address.
Then suddenly, one day, you told
me you had a revelation, for me,
That gone are the days when you
used to be mutual with me,
And the piquant was to be bitter
now with sullenness.
I didn’t accept that, and like a
child’s virtue, I still don’t follow it,
For, what you felt to me, was basic
to me, pure and pointed,
Yes, it soured initially, but
never in absoluteness.
I know the story is yet to be
told, I don’t know how, and when,
The piquant is still not bitter,
though is bereft of touch now,
Missing that flavour of life dipped
in your playfulness.
ON MY LIPS, PLAYING VIVACIOUSLY..
