Friday, November 22, 2013


It’s been in the habit
That any specification seldom drills her affections
That her style is rather fast perceptive in whole
It’s impressionistic- abstract -inexplicit
That the contours of his face-
The shifting shades of his eyes
The fabric of his skin- his hair- his nails
All sustain foggy in her memory.

Let alone the fervency in his smile
As he brushes his hands against her ankles
And his sweet conjectures racing before her pranks
Form the silhouette of her entire passion.

Yet he mourns over her ways so quaint
And yet she impishly laughs at
 Every shell has its own whirl of air
 It’s always private
 And persistent.