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Apr 2018
To some love is like four seasons,
Each representing a different emotion,
To some love is playground,
Running wildly all over the surface,
To some love is maturity,
Understanding eyes before they speak,
To me love was innocent, naΓ―ve, seeker,
Full of questions and riddles,
He was a young boy at heart,
and an adult in bed,
Ahh what a exquisite blend of all three he was,
Our encounters were secretive,
Only when he used to come during summer for vacations I would turn into wrapper,
Waiting anxiously to get unwrapped by his satin like fingers,
I might have crossed all boundaries,
Just to delay the opening of my eyes,
And lay like a mortal in his arms,
Our nights were congested by fanaticism,
Exploring diverse set of ****** nebulas,
Days and days I would transfer my soul to him as that's what kept me burning to live,
But finally the day arrived when young boy,
Alas my nephew announced his departure,
I shrugged away my relationship by blood,
Ran like a jaguar for his lips and pounced on them like a baby catching hold of mother's breast for milk,
We kissed shamelessly but the awkwardness shy away from us and I asked him,
"When will summer arrive in spring season?"
He said, "when the time is ripe to pluck the flowers inside you again",
He left, left, left and said adieu aunt.
Written by
Nihit Bhatia  30/M/Dubai
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