You absolutely do not get the honor of burning a numerical value on her self-worth.

You certainly do not get to measure that assumption from the hem-line tailored on her thighs. Or the daring dresses she wore because it made her feel a different kind of beautiful.

She is not asking for it. What she will demand for is neither your attention nor stares. She wants respect.
Can you do that?

Oh, and when you are emboldened by your 'witty' validation that she  is a ‘****’ or of promiscuous nature, all down to the clothes she wears on her back.

Don’t.

Cotton stitches against warm skin. (She was enjoying a walk.)

Silk swathes on slightly chilled bones. (She forgot her jacket on a Wednesday night out with friends.)

Thick knits adorn even more layers of cotton. (It was a winter night.)

Their cold lips pursed by the late hour, scream silence.

With that validation, you normalise and excuse the acts of ****, soul-destructing ****** offences.
For you have blamed the victim.

You excuse a depraved psychological state.

The veins that choked from ice and no’s. You have forgotten.

Rapists and ****** offenders do not get the luxury of being excused.

Neither do you, ****.

My heart has been
d,
since your eyes met mine.
i
The little gaps punctuating the Z's are
filled by the little crease line that gently brackets your mouth right before you smile,
z
the way your eyes flickers in amusement; it's like a dozen of stars winking at me.
The words you speak from those lips flit recklessly in between.
z
It's the tiniest of winks that causes my heart to stutter a little.

Just a little, ok-ay, sweet-heart?
Don't flatter yourself.
y
It's that inexplicable yet silence that does not quite feel like silence.

And if, oh, god forbid that you are going to draw your last breath.

I’ll say “Tell the stars and sun hello for me.”

I won’t cry. I swear. I promise.

But I’ll cry now, if you leave because you are still alive but you are ignoring the screams of your heart.

Please, just stay.

Love, laugh, cry, scream, smile with me till your heart finally stops.

That's why I can truly whisper to myself "I'll let you go now."

Now, its my heart that is crying.

Splintering into fragments.

Forgotten pieces.

Irreplaceable remnants.

Into dust.

And then beyond any doubt,
into
*nothing.

I adore the inexplicable manner rain makes everything look synonymous with pulchritude.
Grass would suddenly be tinged in the nicest green.
How the wooden fences is stained dark; every chip and grain.
The thin branches of trees laced with droplets of rain; surrendering to gravity.
Suddenly inanimate objects become alive.
So, when you walk in the rain, let it seep, bleed and meld into your skin, let it kiss your very soul.
Its a wonderful contrast between the vibrant hues, lucid drops of water and dark.
You are like the rain.
You bring out my brightest and chain me in darkness somewhere-else.
Its a paradox.  
We are simply eclectic, contradictory beings.
Whilst someone’s wisp of life escapes them, someone else is inhaling its first.
So, if I love you, will you love me back?

Like time and the concept of love, change is infinite and boundless.
And that is when I notice the half-drawn infinite symbol on her window.
There is a gap in it.
That little gap smarts me, I carefully join up the two lines and there, it is now complete.
Whatever that dances on infinity will never lose its way.

I watch her meticulously strain the tea, patiently waiting for time to pass for it to "steep and infuse” which  I quote from her as those words escape her lips. And finally when its ready she announces it with such happiness, I cannot help but feel metaphorical little rays of sunshine kiss my skin.

And the irony is that the sky is painted black with the stars as a sprinkle of sparks. Its precisely one of the reasons I fell for her.  

I have said it before.

But I’ll say again, I can write it till the very ink bleeds across the yellowing pages.