Prajapathi, bidding farewell.

Your mouth – in hesitant silence –
Speaks to me, as your lips twitch,
As your eyes watch. Your breath shifts
Your taut bosom, as you hold in check
What I know you feel.

You tell me, with carefully chosen words
You have practiced so well for years,
That I must go and come back in safety,
For your friendship will await me.
I harden as I watch you stand there for me to go.

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Endima, of the last fuck.

Truth be told,
The last time we got together to fuck,
I had already started moving away.
You had already set the scene with a three day chat,
And, for me, there was no other conceivable way
But to fall in with your scheme; and as I knew
There was still an ember left within.

That weekend was long, and was marred by omens.
The air conditioning went bust, and the heatwave
Made life on bed too sweaty than it must be.
We pulled, and pushed; we rammed it hard,
And you were gasping new ways to a world of ecstasy,
But, I knew that this was all that I wanted to have.

Later, you saw me sink into a valley of moods
And did your best to bring me back to your page,
Even when I had come repeatedly in your mouth
And the stiffness had died,
You kept on pulling and pushing the skin with lust
That, it tore simply because you over-tried.

That’s the last I had you, taking you deep,
And though I, in fantasies of my own,
Have since fucked your bones to hell,
You, I will never have again, for that spell
Which counted while it ran is now a moment in the past
That the present can’t sell.

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Prajapathi, of her silence

Whenever I bring up the topic of
Romance on your side,
You sink into silence. Or you sidestep like
A Center nestling the ball for the national team,
Running for a goal in the safety of silence.
You bypass my verbal traps,
And you seek the sanctuary of mundane trash.

You are someone I would only have
In the silence of a cave.
You, whom I would breathe in, when you
Lay down breathing out; you, whose
Unknown depths that strive to keep the cold fires concealed,
Would be used to burn my desire
Till its crust would crumble off.

Our mating would be quick,
Penetration,without frills.
In that intense drive will be enough love,
Enough longing for eternity.

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Jeevana, before a long break

This, Jeeva, will be our last day
For an entire month and a half,
For your lover returns from the shore
Herding back his fat grown cattle and staff.

Lie back for me, Jeeva, like a corn flower
And let all inhibitions take flight,
For the evening still is young, the sun recedes,
And there are hours to go before the night.

The room tantalizes in your fragrance,
Your being illuminates the corners cold,
As birds faraway take to playful wings,
Let me loose myself on you, be brave and bold.

In the kitchenette the kettle issues its wheeze
And you stir gently on my finger as you rock,
Your eyes are fixed at the approaching clouds
And my key, as its oiled, turns on the lock.

Moan, soft Jeeva, moan with the kettle on the side,
For that holy water that wets my hand
Is the very water from which all life came,
That led men into battle, in search of Promised Land.

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Jeevana, first caresses

A countless number of chats, many texts,
A few calls and after a meeting over tea,
We are in silent agreement that the day is come,
And we are meeting discreet, unknown to the clergy,
Behind closed doors, on a day of a moderate sun.

Subtly, I pull yourself to me, with a
Deft touch just about your waist,
While you offer no resistance, come pushed my way,
The veins of your throat tightens, and with intense eyes
You look at me unknowing and knowing what to say.

I was drawn to you first by what you said and wrote,
By your drawings and sketches and shares of
Freedom and such. And now, after effort, after making it here,
I know that I need you, to hold and probe you deep
And to hammer you so you crack, you open; and weep.

Closer, and I run my right hand through your top,
Ruffling your waist, my left cupping your bum,
And you breathe in and hold it up, expanding your chest,
Your full breast inside your shirt heave and prop.
You whisper that you’re not sure whether this is just right.

I plant on your chest the first warm lips’ caresses,
And draw you to my body, holding you firm.
Your mouth opens in slight, caught in some strange desire,
Through your top I take my hand up, and grip your nipple tight.
You coo a sharp half note, and whimper soft and slight.

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Two Friends, fucking

You claim you two are friends, and
You wear the same coloured knickers too,
But, you always say just to use my hand,
And she insists in gasps that I strike her through.

But, you tell me, when I ask, in your serious way
That she has had initiation done and ripped,
While yours, had had you through all foreplay,
But, has not with a dick your cunthole whipped.

She wants me on top, and she holds her breath back,
While you sit on my face, grinding me in,
Making me lick through your heaven-given crack,
While she tells me to waste whatever come is to sin.

Between you, then, my study of human friendship goes,
From styles of dress, preferred brands to lip balm of sorts,
To what sounds one makes when you tickle their toes,
And at which point it becomes reverie from short, stern, snorts.

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