Silently she prowls,
Inhaling whiffs of his scent,
That inflames her through and through,
Igniting her every sense.
She circles outside his vision,
Sizing him up, drinking in
the rawness of his manliness
Watching him make his ****,
Wouldn't he like to see my skills?
she thinks to herself,
claws ready to pierce into his skin,
to mark his body as hers,
only hers,
she proceeds towards him,
concealing all her fire, all her madness,
beneath smooth, unruffled fur.
He harshly growls,
turning ferociously towards her,
And she,
demurely *purrs

The thrill is palpable,
Pulsating, powerful,
Electric,
Fierce heat it emanates,
Warming our faces,
We are radiant, we glow,
We both feel it,
We both know,
But none of us
is brave enough
to reach out right now,
so we just breathe with bated desire
and watch the lush fire,
crackle, hiss, seductively bloom,
one impatiently waiting for the other
to make the *first move

You're a craving I'm unable to define
A thought that plays on and on
In the recesses of my mind,
a vague, nevertheless, an intense spark
of emotion I'm unable to point my finger at
right now, that yes,
I feel this about you,
It'd be less hard if I knew
what this strong whirlwind was,
Because if I knew,
I could tell you

Red
Is unabashed,
Glorious and proud,
Pure and sensuous,
Sure and loud.
Don't wear it!,
They whispered,
It's the color of sin!
It's the truest shade,
The very hue of life that
Runs beneath my skin,
I said,
And embraced with love,
Unblemished Red

Distracted from everything,
Floating away from all things
Worldly and untrue
I drift fixated,
Towards you, you, you...

Morning commences with the friendly clink of
cups, sitting beside the tea cosy-clad kettle,
Fresh, calming fragrance of warm tea nudging at
My just-awakened senses, a little unsettled,

My favorite ghazal colors the background,
The record though scratchy, its influence unfaded;
Abida Khanum mellowly croons, urging her lover
to not insist on leaving that day.

I smell, instinctively, the red rose he hands me,
The same rose had traced my skin in the dark
The missing petals testimony to its journey
Over troughs and crests, marks and landmarks.

What is so utterly, heartwarmingly romantic
about something as simple as him spreading
butter on bread, mixing sugar in chai,
what makes his 'routine', for me so endearing?

He watches me eat, breaks into a smile so wide,
'How do you enchant me, even with the mundane?'
he asks, same question amusing us both,
Same passion coursing through our veins.

The poetess inside me, happily chuckles,
Of being the one expressive, of solely giving away-
Are the days of the past, as breakfast in bed
Becomes our way of Give and Take

I see it,
It's within reach now
Soon- soon enough,
I'll get there,
*To the point where I just won't care

Hectic, stormy, electric,
Piercing my insides like the
shriek of the fever-bird,
Fire, fire, fire within my being,
Melting my words,
Evaporating my thoughts
Into crazy whirlwinds,
Blurring lines, haze dissolving
the boundaries between
Sanity |  Sin,
Right and wrong,
Real and fantasy,
Mixing into a song,
Feverish, mad song
That longs, so urgently longs
To belong, to eternally belong,
To you-
The sole elixir, the only remedy
For my frenzied malady.

Who are you?
The you we keep writing about,
We- the poets; poets around the world,
Across time immemorial and
space immeasurable,
We write about you,
We shape your skeleton
With the strength of all the pain
We've borne, and we sculpt your flesh
With the wistful beauty of our tears,
We bring you to life with our words
Make them course through your body
Like blood,
Who are you?

The cry of our first heartbreak?
The joy of a lover's return?
The stunning silence of absolute loneliness?
Of turmoil and torment, the stinging burn?

You're all of the above,
and more- profoundly more,
You're a piece of every poet's heart,
Infinite power, immense emotion,
You are the cumulative of every drop of blood
The poet has shed through their pen
You are the story that stays stifled inside
the confines of paper, until someone comes along
And unlatches your locks,
Absorbs the burden of the poet's grief,
And at that moment, brings you to the form in
which you had been intended to be.

It is then, that you, the very essence,
the very soul of the poet,
Can take flight, blissfully relieved,
When you are read, your creator is finally free.