February 18, 2013

The Weakness in Her

In the kitchen, she washes the teacups as the water burbles.
She stands ready with the sugar, alert and concentrated,
and the smell of heating milk and the leaves, and wisps of steam,
send her reeling into the past, replaying images of the first time
they woke up together, the profound heat of his skin against her,
and her confession that she didn't know how to make tea.

The heat from the stove spreads across her hands, and she remembers
the newspaper splayed across the table between them,
and buttery kisses, and she feels her heart wrench,
kick to the side like a living thing hurt, and she falls to her knees,
holding her head between her hands, and weeps.

She feels his hands on her shoulders, and his breath on her forehead
as he whispers her name, and she turns away from embarrassment,
but he pulls her head back, into the solid curve of his shoulders,
and they vanish together into the familiar fragrance of their smells,
unknown for so long, with its flowers and underlying tinge of salt.

Love and Longing in Bombay


  1. Ankur, this was...WOW. I loved it. Amazingly beautiful :)

  2. Whoa! I have such a strong feeling that I've felt this before, all this that you wrote about...." and she falls to her knees,
    holding her head between her hands, and weeps."
    This happened to me, or I wrote about it, or both.
    Goosebumps. Thank you.


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