this imprisoned desire

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a touch was sought and received, whence
fingers gauzed out the remnants of cold
in the warmth of these props of decency,

hidden – the thumb traces the existence, index
paves the way for further exploration, the middle
is the spine holding the act together,

the little is cushioned, nuzzling its cheek against
its counterpart, the ring wonders what it would entail –

probing and prodding the story of our times, it looks
for answers where there are even more questions. verses
are spoken and heard, there are certain bits of activity
to bring forth those much needed bits of dizziness.

such is the nostalgia for the untouched touch – of lips against lips,
of tongue against the skin.
such is the nostalgia for an unanswered answer – of murmurs within
the ears, of words left undone.

I peek through my naked thoughts and find a glimmer of
hope, nostalgic of an unbridled news item –

yesterday, she read the fate off of my palm,
today, he caressed those solemn lines,
tomorrow, I want to make them both last.

.
Linking this hopeless reverie with Poets United. I hope you all are having a good Sunday.
Mine seems to be pretty dubious of its own existence.

Image source

Dripping: A 3 Sentence Story

The aged man was resting in the shade of the peepal tree on a hot and humid afternoon, when a sparrow maneuvered into the thick green branches, rustling the leaves in the otherwise silent atmosphere. The tired man didn’t notice the arrival of the newcomer. He just stroked his fingers over his cheeks where the bird’s dripping fell down over him, in his sleep.

* Written in response of the Trifextra Challenge.

Red Lust

Collision of the bodies

intermingling sweat

the passionate hug

the seductive kiss

 

moan emerges like hiss

euphoria of the best drug

the fingers finally met

come true the auguries

 

the lust overcomes all

echoes around, a silent bawl.

 

P.s.- Written in the same rhyming scheme, as the Violet Juice. I haven’t given a name to this form of poetry… I am still open to suggestions.