Artwork by Anjali Kamat

She always falls asleep before me.

She always falls asleep before me –
no matter whether we’re together, apart or even if we’re talking on the phone.
Her eyes start drooping unintentionally and her mind lets go of the weights of the day.
Her breathing gets steadier, as if holding on to the hands of the ticking clock,
and slowly she glides from reality to the land of fantasies; a place owned by her and her only.

And I just sit there,
plucking at the leaves of silence,
braiding darkness into her glimmering silver hair.

The corners of her mouth rise up occasionally, as if she knows –
as if she knows that the whole day, I struggle to find the words which describe what goes on in my mind,
all the things I want to tell her; how her skin reminds me of the soil that I grew up on, how her dangerous eyes seem to lure me in, and how her magnetic soul has held me captive.
But I don’t.
I don’t because no words feel right when it comes to you.

But when it’s this late, I don’t have to worry about it anymore.
Because maybe there is a language, that would lend me all the right words,
words to hang on these unadulterated skeletons of thoughts and emotions, like decorations and ornaments.

But for now she’s laying on my chest,
listening to my heart beat softly.
And maybe for now,
that’s enough.

This story was about: Lesbianism Sexuality

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