I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
Love Sonnet XI, Pablo Neruda
The night is not young. I sat back and looked blankly at the walls of my room. Mind get fogged with the fog that I’m neglecting for last few days and at the moment. But I realized it’s a futile attempt, a Quitratue. Another insomniac night beckoning me I felt–strongly. The silence of the hour embraces me as I started turning the yellow pages of my memoirs. A face appeared as I closed my eyes. A time started appearing as I surrender to the needs of the time.
time heals a big lie
it keep aside the relics
to cover them with sand
Dedicated to her
Daily Prompt: Doubt