In the sultry ambiance, I visited the virginity in your soul,
the curves- I adored, I felt through the tangible fathom of an inch below my skin, I tasted through the flourishing tactility from my scathing tongue,
I had never felt so legitimate until I saw your naked skin peeling into mine and the nonsensical validity I searched for in the crevices of my friends, fluctuated into a single
living being that formed a definitive shape of a girl I could call in the middle of the night.

When we both seeped our heads into the frenzy of social frequencies
and took inconsequential selfies of the sky and of our eyebrows
I felt the familiar need, for the first time in my life, to let you know that I had never felt like this before
but even as my drying mouth was moving, I could see the wrinkles form in the youths of our friendship.

In the nudity of our pictures, when you lay on my unkempt bed and skinny dipped into the swamps of my burdening brain,
we joint lungs in celebration of small rebellions, we fattened into the acceptance that comes
with a formless love, we expanded and collaged, and my chest had never felt heavier from the
dead weight of something so precious waiting to be lost
I remember when we cut each other’s wrists just to see our naked blood bleed and from my
blurry vision, marred through the uncanny insincerity of teenage adrenaline, it was all so beautiful
the tears I shed blocked the conspicuous image of my braided hair forming a rope around your neck.

I learnt to loathe through you,
my incessant vocabulary founded a vacant nursery in your brain,
I whispered to you in your language,
but when you left the dearth of my room, I talked once again like I had just made love to my
lover
and I think I forgot to tell you that you made me feel loved
in the way my lover did not.

I am sorry if I strangle you like I strangled the others-
my roses look more beautiful between the pages of an old book, I have never had the patience to water them and keep them alive.

Photo Credit: Iqbal Osman1 Flickr via Compfight cc



Paakhi Bhatnagar

Paakhi Bhatnagar is a student from India and an avid reader of historical fiction. She is a passionate feminist and blogs about current politics and feminist issues. She also possess the uncanny ability of turning everything into a debate.

One thought on “To My Temporary Friend

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