I’m a fine specimen of inconsistent love, over calculated or totally miscalculated

decisions coupled with the strong overtone of selfish, egoistic, often occasionally
false actions. And words.

Now, I know I’m bad, very bad in the conventional sense but I’m rather nice too. I
feel confidently capable of eroding you to a new degree of exclusivity by making
you give me a part of you, you couldn’t have possibly seen coming. I knock down
walls you didn’t know existed with as little effort as the wind requires to dance
with my unrestrained brown hair, left open for you, which you carefully tuck behind
my ear as you kissed me every time in the short span of our rather tumultuous love
affair. Now, I know you never thought I could be serious with my words, least of
all, words triggered by intoxication. I have that awful personality, the selfish
woman, You might intrigue me marginally, I might feign interest. I probably merely
enjoy your company as a friend. Yet, I will pursue your very soul with a desire
unparalleled and unlike anything you’ve ever experienced or even comprehended . I
will crack open your very heart and soothe you with the unintended promise of
stability and safety. I will accept unconditionally, fragments of you that you
failed to love for yourself. I will love you much more than I genuinely feel for
you.

I won’t play with you, my gratification out of this is much more sinister than your
attention. Your attention isn’t even a major motivation here. Did you really think
a woman like me had any dearth of the same? I will observe myself consume your
being, rather comfortably.…

I wanted to tell you as I waited for the cab to stop at the corner of the road that
leads to your flat.

Am I a bitch? Will I hurt you? Will I leave you aching? Your eyes screamed a lot of
questions at me, as I walk into your apartment with my bags.

Day Fucking Four of meeting you.

Far from it, the only aim I do have is to soothe your aching soul… Did you hear me?

I was in your apartment with my bags. How did a philophobe like you not run away?

You’re stoned. Oh so stoned! You are maintaining a stoic silence and have an air of
snobbery. I don’t like how you will treat me tomorrow, already. I won’t reduce what
we shared in our short-notice romance to something minimal and meaningless. I
won’t, You’ll do it, all by yourself. Treat me like a learning experience, that is
what you will be to me in addition to a few beautiful memories but I know you’ll
fail to. Just as I will. As you let the train of emotions and thoughts of me haunt
you, I’ll pretend to probably never even think of you again, even though your
distance would only crush my soul into a zillion pieces, and I wouldn’t fucking
know which ones to pick.

Maybe this is what you get for catching feelings. Maybe a much larger magnitude of
this is what has once been done to me that in turn turned me into a shallower
bitch. Maybe I was a little girl running from abuse, pain and dysfunctionality when
I ran into you? But would you believe it if you ever looked into my ruthless eyes?
Perhaps not.

But it’s not all bad. You’re not dealing with a frenzied, raging alcoholic or a
stoic, expressions-less stoner either. You, sweetheart, I understand your pop
culture references, your intensifying absurdist sighing, your existentialist angst
and soothe them in a weird way, that baffles you.
I am now as baked as you, and we are looking into nothingness, and the distance. We
are doing everything to avoid talking to eachother. So scared, so very frightened
to acknowledge what just happened.

You’re now five and a half inches away from my body, lying on your bed which we
don’t know would be our bed for a hundred other nights from now, still unmade
because of the last night I came here as another “date”. For a reason better known
to you, you’ve not had sex with me yet. For a man like you, this is new.

You tuck me in the blanket with you and kiss me for eternity, talk to me about what
made you cry when you were 13, ask me why I give a half smile, make me breakfast in
the morning, fetch me a glass of water, and never for once have you tried to fuck
me or shut me up for being emotional. For a woman like me, this is new.

Your face resembles someone. Someone I’ve dreamt about with my eyes open after I
read a piece of post modern literature. No. It differs a lot from the face I’ve
dreamt about. But most of all, it’s a face I would reach for when I open my eyes,
the face I would throw myself into a battlefield for.

You’re touching the clavicle.. cleavage, my abdomen now, with your icy cold fingers
that smell faintly of marijuana and your neck smells of a Just Cavalli cologne.
Words aren’t exchanged, and we don’t need them. For, this poetic silence and a gaze
never leaving the other’s conveys a thousand thoughts that the words would fail to,
quite miserably.

Every touch, every single touch. Elaborate or sparing, is electrifying each cell of
my existence.

You’re in me. And out of me. My thighs quiver, your organ throbs. In an almost
rhythmic fashion. We are a single entity on this bed, pulling the sheets, clenching
them, breathing as one. There’s a wordless assurance. There’s a prayer.

I don’t live on prayers, and it’s only DayFour of this tumultuous magic, but I’m
hoping a prayer would get us somewhere.