by Deeptesh Sen
The morning after is always painful.
Invasion of astonished light
on your questioning glance;
a cruel emptiness.
Five bottles of aspirin
and telephone bills unpaid.
A taste of bitter sleep
on the wild geometry of your lashes.
Spilled shadows caressing the folds
of your violet dress that melted
into the tendrils of the night,
you stood there naked as glass, shivering
with everything that makes you a woman.
My hands travelled your selpruchal walls
smooth like the white sands of time,
quivering at the salty brim of your ocean.
My fingers found faith.
The night fell through my fingers
like candle-wings of rain.
My sight snaked like war
across the carnal perfumes in your armpit.
My kisses healed the snow
and scurried like mad rivers
along the fragile, nomad landscape.
My thunder drank the moons
cascading down the wild silence of her thighs.
Her hair rebeling against her wordless sky,
there she stood
in the unnaturalness of the fractured moment,
a tiny bit of infinity.
Your eyes had the scent of bells,
your laughter the secret lust of open windows.
My fingers revealed doors
of our little boat sailing in the orange clock,
with violin sails.
the morning cofee is dull
and lacks saccharine.
Strange shapes descend
from clocks and trees
as photon policemen storm into our bed.
Stench of unwashed vegetables
murder the November breeze
while dead cats remember rainbows in their dreams.
Your morning breath
spidering up along my lips,
You feed the birds with mild rebukes.
We talk of metaphysics and rain.