Written by Ravneet Bawa is a Technical Designer with one of the many IT firms south of Chennai. She immensely enjoys word play in life and on paper. On bleary days, she practices the craft by inserting funny comments in Perl code and writing sarcastic e-mails to office admin. Luckily for her, her clients have a great sense of humour and sarcasm is often lost on the admin folks. Her poetry however comes from some deep, dark, melancholic place which is not a haunt of choice, but is a rather compelling one. She has previously been published on Asia Writes. Read more by this writer |
Not Entirely AppropriateMust have been no later than 3:15, that hot July night, when he first visited my dreams. I lay on my side, on my side of our bed, facing away from you.
A forearm, not muscled, not light, not entirely tan. Corded my waist, not entirely flat. Pulled into that hollow of him, I filled him with me.
His breath was warm on my neck, my breast heavy on his arm. White covers, soft cotton layered in muslin sheets, lay sheer but extant, between us.
Wrapped like sushi, we waited on the blue china spread. Not entirely still, for the night to move over us. For the sunlight to drown a faceless rendezvous.
Were I awake, I would have known if it was you, or another between us. Many times since. But I am always on my side, with him and you behind. |
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