Young,Wild Love

She liked her old monk neat, 
For it was her belief that, 
That could tame her feelings, 
Gulping up the last drop from the glass, 
She stood in the wild winter night. 

Intoxicated as she was, 
She knew that she wouldn't do anything stupid, 
Her faith in him is something that she never would give a second thought, 
And yet he stood there, oblivious to the fact
That she is standing because of him. 

'Spring of her life' as she called him, 
Or 'Lilies in the winter'. 
Sigh! 
If only he was a romantic. 

The two just stood there, 
Following the silence. 
The air was warm, 
Or maybe it was the rum. 

His firm hands grasping tightly
Her waist.
Was it the rum?
Or was it the passion?

Who knows!

Grasping tightly, her waist
He pulled her towards him,
She always liked the way his lips moved above her,
That firm sense of longing,
Those moments of desperate longing for each other,
All of it!
That night they made love,
Sweet, pure, passionate love,
For they were young,
They were wild,
They were free.

Incentuous

The crisp december air wipped the smoke of the cigarette,
The distant hustle and bustle of the city murmured in the ears,
She tried to catch the puff of smoke,
Thinking that must be her dreams.

The untidy hair,
The same old pyjamas,
The smudged lipstick and koel,
and the ubiquitous cigar stench in between her fingers,

Puffing of the butt, she thought was it worth it?
was it worth?
That her life is trapped within the shackles of bigotry.
Men come and go in her life, for she was attractive,
She was valient,
For they say men liked such valiency,
She was undisputed,
Men do not like whining,
She was taught.
She was taught to hide her tears.
Did she turn stone-cold?
Yes!
Did emotions left her?
Yes!

But why?