Night drips slow,
and so do you
velvet voice,
liquid steps,
a hush steeped in candlelight.
You uncork the bottle
like it's a secret,
your fingers whispering
against the glass
as if it might shatter
under too much want.
The pour?
Decadent.
A ribbon of red
twisting into the waiting dark —
rich, warm,
dangerous.
You hand me a glass
like it means something,
your eyes holding
just long enough
to undo my breath.
We drink.
The wine stains,
but so do the pauses —
that kind of silence
where bodies
lean closer than words.
You ask if I want more.
Of the wine,
or of you?
I say “yes”
and it doesn't matter
which I mean.
Tongues of jazz
curl from the record player,
slow and low,
like everything we aren’t saying.
A shadow of your smile
lingers on the rim
of your glass,
and I chase it
with mine.
You laugh —
soft and sharp,
like dark chocolate breaking.
And in that laugh
is a promise
unspoken,
unrushed.
We sip.
We savor.
We slip into something
like gravity
inevitable,
velvety,
deliciously slow.
And somewhere between
your touch on my thigh
and the last drop on your lips,
I swear
you taste like everything
I've ever wanted
to fall asleep beside.
©®Madhumita
No comments:
Post a Comment