Both
Too much,
and too little
Commotion,
Can mute the poet's emotion

The skin whispers and summons her hither,
To where secret stories lie hidden in depths
That she had not yet discovered,
The sigh of the flesh, the magnetism
Of touch, the electricity of lust beckon,
Her steps momentarily waver,
Yet she retraces them just in time,
Managing to overhear the conversation
Her heart was having with his,
There were sounds of throaty laughter,
Friendly nudges and incessant debates,
There was a fragrance of coffee in the air,
A nip of flirtation had begun to dance with care,
And there were cushions scattered on the floor.
She sat on the pink one,
And he sat at the other side,
Both immersed in that conference,
Knowing they would let their hearts
Talk each other out,
Before the skins began to talk out loud.

Isn't ripping a
Soulmate away from your insides,
Too,
A kind of suicide?

I warned him I was poison,
That my womb spouted lava,
That there was fire between my legs
And it spared no visitor,
Yet he laughed, the fool,
And the proud, vain loon,
Did not pause a moment before
Barging in unwanted,
Like he had, into ninety-nine
other forbidden heavens,
Eager to add a tale more of dominance,
To the ninety-nine others
He would proudly tell,
Only to emerge- consumed,
scorched, devoured by my fumes.
Hadn't I told him I was hell?

Haunted Haiku

I will wait for you
in the darkness-in the still
of this wicked night.

He doesn't have to be
A poetry person
To be my person