Vibhavari Desai (17)
To Love A Woman
They say that a woman who loves another woman is forever young. Perhaps that’s why it feels like spring in your embrace, even as everything around us decays and rots. Or, that’s why the colour of the lust in your brazen black eyes reminds me of the man who sold balloons in our alley. It seems like no time has passed.
You plant lazy kisses along my jawline, which I can liken to the feeling of candy dissolving in my mouth. The hem of your skirt resembles that of the school girls I knew, shielding their knees from the glances of the boys. But I always caught a glimpse of their creamy thighs—a view to thank million gods for.
To love a woman is to play with fire. Yet, I don’t mind the occasional burns and bruises. To come undone in the hands of a woman is oddly like joining together the last pieces of a puzzle.
Your supple fingers stroke my back as if they were trailing along the keys of a grand piano; your lingering touches make me hit octaves that perhaps even a respected pianist cannot.
You step back, to admire, possibly, the mess that you have made out of my existence. Your black locks resemble a cascading waterfall, and in my mind’s eye, they take me back to a monsoon trek. I was twelve and I thought that the waterfall was almost the eight wonder of this world. Yet, as your hands snake southwards, careful to caress every inch of me, just like the water taunted the boulders back then, you are the most beautiful sight.
Your tongue seeks its way, slowly, savouring each sensation. With every jolt of passion that courses through my veins, you take me back to a time, a time when love was a foreign concoction.
To love a woman is to willingly embrace one’s ruin. It’s like standing at the edge of the cliff and jumping into the unknown, which is quite similar to the way I dive into the valley of your lush breasts. There is not a single wrinkle on your smooth, almost-ironed skin, but there will be, someday. We do not have the time to worry about it tonight.
As your fingers plunge deeper, I sing songs from faraway lands. The cruelty in your rhythm is unmistakable and with each thrust, I croon a note, higher than before. Your tongue flicks, for the last time, before you sigh against my thigh. A sigh, very similar to the one that escaped your throat, years ago, when my I pressed my lips against yours, for the very first time.
And like they say, a woman who loves another woman is forever young.
When she’s not busy dissecting novels, Vibhavari can be found engrossed in her textbooks or hogging delicacies. Being a tomboy, she detests anything that is remotely girly, namely make-up, skirts, high heels and the color pink. She’s a deadly combination of an aspiring author and a neuropsychiatrist in making. She’s a thorough cat-lady, who can choose her cat over her one true passion—writing—any time.
To Love A Woman
They say that a woman who loves another woman is forever young. Perhaps that’s why it feels like spring in your embrace, even as everything around us decays and rots. Or, that’s why the colour of the lust in your brazen black eyes reminds me of the man who sold balloons in our alley. It seems like no time has passed.
You plant lazy kisses along my jawline, which I can liken to the feeling of candy dissolving in my mouth. The hem of your skirt resembles that of the school girls I knew, shielding their knees from the glances of the boys. But I always caught a glimpse of their creamy thighs—a view to thank million gods for.
To love a woman is to play with fire. Yet, I don’t mind the occasional burns and bruises. To come undone in the hands of a woman is oddly like joining together the last pieces of a puzzle.
Your supple fingers stroke my back as if they were trailing along the keys of a grand piano; your lingering touches make me hit octaves that perhaps even a respected pianist cannot.
You step back, to admire, possibly, the mess that you have made out of my existence. Your black locks resemble a cascading waterfall, and in my mind’s eye, they take me back to a monsoon trek. I was twelve and I thought that the waterfall was almost the eight wonder of this world. Yet, as your hands snake southwards, careful to caress every inch of me, just like the water taunted the boulders back then, you are the most beautiful sight.
Your tongue seeks its way, slowly, savouring each sensation. With every jolt of passion that courses through my veins, you take me back to a time, a time when love was a foreign concoction.
To love a woman is to willingly embrace one’s ruin. It’s like standing at the edge of the cliff and jumping into the unknown, which is quite similar to the way I dive into the valley of your lush breasts. There is not a single wrinkle on your smooth, almost-ironed skin, but there will be, someday. We do not have the time to worry about it tonight.
As your fingers plunge deeper, I sing songs from faraway lands. The cruelty in your rhythm is unmistakable and with each thrust, I croon a note, higher than before. Your tongue flicks, for the last time, before you sigh against my thigh. A sigh, very similar to the one that escaped your throat, years ago, when my I pressed my lips against yours, for the very first time.
And like they say, a woman who loves another woman is forever young.
When she’s not busy dissecting novels, Vibhavari can be found engrossed in her textbooks or hogging delicacies. Being a tomboy, she detests anything that is remotely girly, namely make-up, skirts, high heels and the color pink. She’s a deadly combination of an aspiring author and a neuropsychiatrist in making. She’s a thorough cat-lady, who can choose her cat over her one true passion—writing—any time.