Poem in transit – Bombay, May 2003

I am aching for what I am missing

Now I am thinking… imagining,

What is it to feel your hair between my fingers?

And on my lips?

Not kissing, but brushing against.

I am discovering what it is

To breathe in the scent of golden silk.

 

Blind, my face flirts with your locks,

My senses, melting me down to bone

I long to touch you without touch

I long to breathe you in and never exhale

I long to feel you,

And just feel.

You.

 

The inside of your wrist is pale, veined.

I trace translucent, blue green rivulets with my fingertip,

Travelling the river road of your blood

With one square millimetre of skin.

Your eyes are locked onto my journey.

My eyes, onto the sweeping wave of your lashes,

Locked and unfluttering.

 

Randomly, I think of a key

Lost in the ocean underneath your eyelids.

But who seeks it? Not I.

I am serene.

Content to swim in the sea of your near glances

And walk along the banks of your meandering canals

With my poem writing, ink-stained fingers.

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