When they were entangled
in the orange coils of passion again,
she reminded him
of the moonstone.

When he and she were in a band,
at its wild crescendo,
the moonstone had melted,
a molten green fluorescent liquid,
roared in his *****,
she felt the tremor,
the spasms that comes like waves,
to embrace the shores,
wild winds, cloudburst.
"Come deep" she pleads
to him in between.
Winds still in the wings
kept roaring as if the thirst remains,
didn't he see moonstone in her eyes,
an eager glint, unspoken words,
obscene perhaps, erupting from deep?


He ate apples, she had peaches,
she combed her long hair,
with a ritualistic meticulousness.

He  spat the seeds of the fruit.
She stared at him with unbelieving eyes,
at that night,
something strange happened,
the river went dry,
in the morning he saw dead fish
amidst pebbles smooth and round,
shaped by long years of rolling through
the riverbed,  now lying orphaned,
naked without the cover of water.

*She had already left,
was the moonstone yet another myth?