In the market square
In an unfamiliar day on an
Hour not usual for either of us,
As I sat with the vendor of
Dried fish, talking politics,
As I turned my head for a moment’s space,
There, you walked by us,
Stopped for a minute, with time enough
Just to say a Hi.
Your eyes met mine, Jeevana,
And in your eyes I saw the need to say more.
Your lips tightened, as if in a hurried kiss,
And what my face betrayed, Jeevana,
I do not know. Then, you reluctantly moved on.
Turned around and moved on, as you had to go.
So, I turned back to the vendor of fish,
And continued on the subject of politics.
But, you woman whose warmth I know, of you I wanted more.
First time we fucked, in your
Thick-curtained, blinds-drawn room,
I made myself lose to the streams of vodka
From within which you murmured, “Harder, my love”,
Eyes closed, cheeks flushed,
Hair undone in a fashionless mass,
And I rammed you with all my gut, for
You were a dolled bitch from another class.
Each hit, I could feel, brushing hard against wet walls,
Going deep into the slime, in search of your edge.
Later, you mounted me, and treated me with
Such tenderness — like a lost soul trying to surface
From an abyss into which she had fallen; trying to
Re-live a sentiment long unused, and corroded:
Like a desperate act to learn the male body how to touch.
You traced your wet tongue down the center of my body,
Slid your mouth around my cock; where I felt you twitch.
As we finally lay back, two-two and half hours later,
The taste of your tongue and pussy
Indistinguishable in my mouth, you sighed,
Rolled off bed and walked naked to the bath,
Your massive haunches swinging in disdain,
A dimple in your left ass, and with no word to my
Still hungry self.