The Silhouette Of Desire

You've often asked me

what is it in you

that makes me desire you

at the peak of my bloodthirst for lust

at the crossroads where lust and love and like blur boundaries

like the untamed wilderness  you expect where a river meets an ocean meets a sea

And I wish I had a definitive answer

but all of my inappropriate thoughts appropriated around you

the ones that have birthed poets and playwrights

tamed in their behaved words

because fahrenheit rising at the rub of skins isn't something to be talked out loud

all of it is but a free verse to me

Rhymes are to shallow to contain them

and parables are too autocratic

the rhythm changes meters every single time

and yet it all somehow adds up to the pages of curated anthology.

It begins abrupt because the best things in life

are but elaborate imitations of its own pattern

too random to be predictable

and yet repititive in parts to not be absurdly accidental

and not once does it ever end with the hint of a closure

because art at its most unhinged never concludes

but only ever leaves you hanging on a thread

with the lure of some more, and some again.

There's something about the dry sweat

melting into traces of an effervescent exotic perfume

two things everyone breathing in their skin could afford

and yet one that only you could ever wear like it was your flesh and bones.

There’s something about the nape of your neck

that reads like a map of forgotten temples,

a terrain where fingers become pilgrims

and the air itself grows thick with incense

no heaven, no holiness could ever summon.

Your shoulders dissociate like warm clay cusped in patient palms,

bearing the weight of every unspoken offering,

the tender rise and fall of peaks and curves

where gravity hesitates,

and every contour memorizes desire like a landscape learning its own tides.

And those wide-eyed constellations on either side of your midriff,

fix on me without apology or shame,

adoring my unashamed indecencies

the way oceans accept rivers without question,

without pretense, without morality — only pull, only flow.

A tiny universe spins quietly at your core,

as if inviting the curious geologist in me

to trace contours they cannot distinguish

from exploration or conquest.

And then there is the cave that hides a universe within, 

the axis of all gravity,

rising, insistent, an unshamed instrument of desire,

not merely flesh but the inspiration and the death of heat and intent,

the pulse that scores our private anarchy.

It seeks me as the tide seeks the moon,

a pulse that bends the landscape of skin and breath,

and when it houses me within, 

the world folds into a singular exhalation,

each motion a stanza, each groan a syllable

in the anthology of uncontainable want.

The scent of it is uncanny:

wet, amphibian, fish-flesh sweet with longing,

a godless perfume of dreams unmade,

where morality drowns and instinct surfaces,

and the air itself trembles with our disregard for propriety.

My fingers trace the architecture of your spine,

descend like secret rivers into hollows,

where shivers become syntax

and every nerve, every pore,

reads as a parenthesis to our own irreverent scripture.

Every collision, every friction,

is a declaration of entropy,

a calculus of heat and sinew,

where nothing is polite, nothing predictable,

yet all of it aligns

the chaos, the rhythm, the fever of want

becoming a poem too fluid for rhymes,

too wild for closure.

And after, when the crescendo subsides,

all that remains is heat clinging to skin,

the scent of amphibian desire, the echo of godless dreams,

as an epilogue that no rhyme could define,

no parable could contain.

Only the promise of some more, and some again.