Friday, June 6, 2008

Wet Behinds The Ears.

Her neatly folded hair get spread across her forehead. Immaculately clean finger nails further pointing towards the same. I wonder why she is not amazed at herself. I let myself get carried away. A bag she keeps by the wayside and her eyes seem stuck on the pleats of her shawl. She holds a musk sweater between her left arm and body, tightly held to ensure it will not slip away as easily as my eyes have. With a look so forlorn that at times it begins to scare me, she has a nose that is slightly skewed towards the left, with eyebrows pinched as if they mock those who stare. Her ears seem quiet and her sneeze would embarrass Mozart. A faint demeanor and nonchalant hands that speak of her quaint disposition. She stares now as if there is a sense of disassociation with dissonance in the outside world. In the quivering light of the room, I can observe the shadows her straightened legs make, encompassing the entire spread. They move incoherently as if they await comfort and she lets them settle on the brown pillow at the other end. The thump of the conditioner dissolves in her heartbeat and she feels comfortably mine. Another may cut a ridiculous position but she is numb in her stride, almost ignorant with a pale yet condescending thought. This impudence of hers may be criticized by the disinterested but I can steady my fill tonight. Her sturdy knees link her body to my chest and she quietly turns her head away to stare at the paint and my thumb and index finger twitch between her spine and the back of her head. She further moves only to turn around and stare at me in full force, arousing faint hope. The sweater lies dropped between us and the result is near comatose, combined with her intention to agonize tonight. Her wit overcomes my dryness and she lights herself a cigarette. Caught safely between her two fingers, she inhales providing much needed solace. Her toe nails are now hurting my feet but I am too pulsated by her limited looks to notice. She then quits halfway, pushes the ash intro the tray and faces me straight, her eyes fastening to a close, yet tenderly awaiting touch. She is now as quiet as death and she comes as close as she could without help. I raise my hand and I'd wish to intrude but something stops and refuses to infuse the last of my finite being. Her sanguine, so cardinal lips speak a language which I may oversee on look but sure could comprehend if needed, but as tired I am to work my mind, I am equally frazzled. I give her now well lit frame a glimpse, but enervated by movement, I grimace and shift away from the palpable niceties of life. Sometimes, sleep beckons with such weightiness that one forgets to read the headlines. Tomorrow, I shall get the news. Night.

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