My Literature

Mornings. That’s when you kill me most.
On many nights, I dream of you. On many other, I can’t recall my dreams. Irrespective of the night, I wake up CRAVING for you. It’s almost as if the need to see you is compulsive. Biological. Physical. I keep thinking about you, often wet and wild thoughts, till I can think no more. Till my head is all choc-a-bloc with mosaic of your photos. Your lips, eyes, face, neck, chest….. Looking at the world through the darting eyes of a hunted animal. Desperately searching for the only sign of hope. You.
Sweetheart, it’s not fair to unleash all the assault, with such ruthlessness, right at the beginning of each day. I know, wherever you are, it must be giving you some pleasure to watch me squirm for your touch. I know you know, how badly I need you to squeeze me in your hug. How elaborately I want you to love me. Kiss me to the point of suffocation. How you occupy every available space of my consciousness.
Pray, why don’t you help me then?
For starters, ration your thoughts equally throughout the day. The morning dosage is too heavy to be borne without inviting suspicion. Also, it leaves me in a suspended state of animation for the rest of the day. As if I belong nowhere. And all I can see is the curve of your neck, right above your collar, where I like to nestle my face and breathe in your skin.
Further, ask your memories to behave. They have a way of breaching all boundaries of experience and comfort, often leaving me breathless and flushed in their wake.
So what do I do with you?
Mark Twain said, “There are three things men can do with women: love them, suffer them, or turn them into literature.” If he was a woman, he’d have known it’s equally true the other way round.
I however, replace the OR with AND.

I love you, I suffer you, I bathe you, I wear you, I spread you, I immerse in you, I cry you, I apply you, I see you, I eat you, I drink you, I breathe you, AND I turn you into literature.

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