The Profane.

We decided to visit. After having met weeks later, the desire was strong. Though it was mostly unsaid and despite our silent lustful exchanges, we avoided any scent of profanity that might have lingered around our relationship. She would slip her fingers politely in my hand, ofcourse I never resisted, rather I enjoyed these moments of transcendence where for few minutes I allowed myself to forget the names we were given.

Maybe this is just a confession or a fantastical idea, but the severity of emotions being felt between us shall bleed through these words, which I am beginning to consider my solace, as to her my lips are sealed.

It was a cold afternoon, highly unlikely given the month and time. So I suggested we sat somewhere warm and less windy, and she wore a black t shirt. This color highlighted what was best on her, the eyes. But she was a beautiful woman, the kind you look at again after a glimpse. This air of magnetism is extremely hard to avoid. Though I know I am not supposed to let myself get enveloped in this sublimity, but the fact that this love is terrifying, makes it even more tempting and my imagination more sensuous. She slips her fingers again, and very passively so. There are some kinds of touch that communicate better, and so was hers. Though the sexual tension was never absent, but in between there were thick layers of affection and love. Which made me want her even more.

(I know that this is crazy, half insane and completely beautiful.

Places where lovers go and have been, are not for him and me.

We, we love differently, we are profane.

The profanity is when your fingers politely entwine mine,

And how your eyes refuse to leave the contours of my face.

The ring you left, is safe and fits perfectly.)

How I wanted her was far more important than the 'why'.
I wanted to wrap myself around her in the freezing mornings that were around the corner. She would keep herself still, because the warmth was a quenching relieve for her. I know this, because I have known and seen her since we were kids. We played around, and though my eyes never went to the room where she was, but a presence was always prominent. And now after years when the closeness has become a necessity, our shared history is only a strength. I wanted to look at her face, without her eyes turning away, and maybe when I have her as close as I can, tell that I love her.

(I talked of love with the body, the loneliness of the

Heart and the occupation of the body.
Our shared nights and evenings, now bring warmth.

We never talked about the heart, the sin they thought

It was committing. But I cherish his touch, and its politeness.

The inception of a difference, amongst lovers.)

Hours passed, and we simply held hands. The sensuality and need of a deeper physical contact kept haunting. But there is something about winters, the cold air, the chilling breath calms down everything it touches. The music she played was not very clear, but it was both instigating and soothing. Everytime I saw her, I felt happiness, moments where I wondered if that's normal were soon passed and dismissed. We talk, I love to see her talk and listen. And like all the other times, we leave with smiles. 

(The profanity of what we shared was quiet,

When asked I never answered, but his being cured me.

I know he'd never say, neither will I.

So a sanctity remains amongst this incestuous 

belonging. I see him again tomorrow, and all 

I do is anticipate. What the winter winds store now.)