Impasto

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

Because

 Every shell has its own whirl of air

 It’s always private

 Unrelenting

 And persistent.