Near, yet so far…

You know, love is so distant to some at times. I think people look at love in different ways… it is most divine when we are in it, and it’s the most cruel when it just doesn’t work out. Perhaps, it was something that only we thought would be the best relationship ever.

Seeing your eyes, it wants to look into it and profess an undying love for you, blindfold it so you forget those inhibitions that I know you feel; that consciousness of how you look, and realize how beautiful you are in the darkness that befalls you.

When you talk, I read your lips, red like strawberries in winter. I wish nothing more than to kiss them, nibble them passionately and whisper unto them, secrets that mine does keep. In the darkness, I wish they speak of pleasures which I long to give you.

When you lean down, and through your loose top, I see your petite breasts, I wish to just caress it, make my lips feel the warmth of the skin, and taste the love that comes.

Each day, I wish to pull those jeans off your slender legs and unclothe you with a hunger that scares me, wish to hear your moans of surprise, of delight when my fingers roam around your sweaty body and make you willing to be my all.

Every night, I wish you become that woman with whom I can bring my fantasies to life. And wake up in the morning feeling more satisfied than I’ve ever been.

But seeing you, every day, I realize what it feels like to be loving, yet not loved back in that same way. We are friends… very close at that, but my heart wants more. If only you were alone, and not married. I wish I could say all this to you, but its better off hidden deep within me, only rising each moment that I am near, yet so far…


 

Janhvi challenged me on the page, “Inspire my art” to “write ur feelings as a guy lusting aftera married woman; a post from d body, not brain.; ( no poem or any form thereof, and no fiction story mode)” so, glad to say, “Art – inspired, and painted.”


(’12. feb 25.)

Poetry & writing to me are to me, a breath of fresh air in a life that is sometimes covered by the smoke of sorrow or self doubt. They also become the sweets I share to celebrate when life offers me a reason to. But most of all, they are to me, my life. For each word I write is a piece of my heart, a thought that just had to find its way into the world.

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