lust – My Spirals

Not all dates are the same.

Not all dates are the same.

Before you start reading, two translations you might need – ‘baba’ means father and ‘ammi’ means mother. I hope you like this

It’s very tough to remember how a conversation played out when it has been a few years and you’ve not even thought about it once. Luckily for me, I had a map that helped me remember every important detail. This map was made out of lyrics and tunes that we sang together. The first song was an instrumental that went on for about six minutes. We spent those minutes just looking and trying to draw mental sketches of each other Continue reading Not all dates are the same.

Seduced with love.

His touch was soft,
So much that often I wouldn’t even notice it was there.
But every now and then,
He’d put in rainbow passion,
suntan reality, and Christmas intensity,
When he wrapped his hand around my waist.
When he did,
My bare waist could feel his calloused hands,
My breath danced to its rhythm,
And my spine would arch like a quivering bow.
His kiss was gentle,
So much that often I only tasted love in it.
But every now and then,
He’d press his body against mine,
And put his lips below my ear,
On my neck and kiss.
My legs would melt right then,
And I’d lean against his lips,
My hands on his hip.
He’d kiss my neck like it had rained in a desert,
and he’d suck hard to take everything I did not love about me,
Out and replace it with summer lust,
Sexy poetry, and human fire.
His hands often caressed my thigh,
But sometimes it trekked north,
And my breath left my soul,
And my soul filled with insanity.
His heart often beat against mine,
But sometimes it was my heart and his lips,
And when he kissed,
I moaned.

Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post : In conversation with: God
Related post : Tipsy.

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Kisses.

Comment down below the story of your most cherished kiss, or your first kiss.

I’ve kissed you a thousand times,
Each time a little differently.
The first time,
I pinned you against a wall,
and looked into your whiskey eyes,
on your sunset lipstick,
and on your flushed cheekbones.
I kissed you with passion.
I’ve always wanted to die,
And you tasted like poison.

The tenth time,
You had sand in your hair,
and attraction in your eyes.
Vodka lingered on your lips,
And every story inside of me
That needed some courage,
Tasted you near the blueberry waves.

The sixtieth time,
We were naked on a red bed-sheet,
No eyes prying to find the secrets of my hollow heart,
or of the stories hidden behind your mountain chest.
I kissed you,
Your chest pressed against mine,
My hands on your inner thigh,
And you tasted like water,
My goddamn necessity.

The last time I kissed you,
You were crying and shivering,
I was stunned to silence,
As if a bullet had gone right through our hearts.
The kiss tasted a little salty,
and it tasted like the last fucking time,
I kissed you.

Infatuation,
Attraction,
Lust,
Love.
I have kissed you a thousand times,
And each time a little differently.

Instagram: myspirals
Previous post : Damn, your eyes.
Related post : Kisses and cravings.

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Life.

Life is a bright sun, but it is also a tornado. These are not real stories, but the problems are real. Also, these are two different stories. I hope we survive. Instagram handle: @myspirals

She was only eleven when this had happened. It was a sunny afternoon and she wanted to play with her friends in the park. While playing Hide and Seek, her friends hid here and there and she was alone in the park, skipping and hopping excitedly as she looked for her friends. It seemed to be a good day. While running towards a bush where she thought her friends were hiding, she tripped and scraped her knee. Tears wetted her cheeks as a few drops of blood trickled down her knee. A guy in about his thirties, saw her crying and walked up to her. He consoled her and took her to his house to see the injury.

He used a piece of cloth and rubbed her knee with it to remove the blood, and she gasped because of the pain. Slowly, he started rubbing her thighs and when she tried to back away, he held her leg tightly in place “Let me take care of you.”. He touched her inner thighs and smiled as he moved closer to her area and her eyes dilated with fear. This wasn’t right. She screamed but he used the piece of cloth to tie her mouth. His fingers touched her in places that she now refers to as scars.

He was twenty-one. Life seemed to be a frolic in the park, happy and delightful. He had a mother and two sisters, and he loved them to death. They lived in a small part of the city. He went out to buy food for his family, when out of nowhere, something blew a hundred kilometers away. Almost in succession, there was two more blasts a little to the east of it. He had no idea what was happening, but he ran anyway. Not away from the blasts, though. Towards them. That’s where his house was and that’s where his family was. After running for ten minutes at full pace, he opened the door to his house as his heavy breathing slowed a bit. They were safe.

He took hold of their hands and asked them to hurry as they ran away from the monstrous blasts. They hurried towards the sea where a lot of people seemed to be headed. He saw boats and sighed in relief. They got on the boat and saw their home turn to smoke and dust as they moved away from the catastrophe. Refugees. Where were the refugees headed? Towards lonely hearts and no home.

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Previous post: Empty hearts.
Related post: This damn world.

Home and him.

It has been a while since I had posted something I’ve written, and I really wanted to. The Whiskey Words is still going on. Tomorrow is the last date to submit, though. Enjoy!

I’ve been asked
time and time again,
How can a person be your home?
Now, how do I explain this?

When I am with him,
I wear comfy pajamas and absolutely no make up.
I confine to the wall of his arms,
and cry with my face buried in his shoulder
like a kid holding a pillow to muffle his screams.
His dimples are the trampoline to my fingers.
Every time Lust and love,
his best-friends, and our guests
come over,
I dress up fancy and serve myself.
Honestly, I just sleep all day in his arms.
And even though I need no-one,
He protects me anyway.
He makes sure I walk on the right side of the street,
And that my hair is tucked behind my ear.
Home isn’t built in a day,
and neither were we.
Like wizards without their chosen wands,
And Ross without Rachel,
I am alright without him,
but completely empty inside.
If I was a goddamn house,
he would be my furniture.
Like a sailor on a quivering boat,
in a black night storm,
I miss him when he isn’t around.

What else do you get homesick for,
if not a home?
And I love him so much,
with all my heart.
Home is where the heart is.

So yeah, he is my home.
Two arms, wavy hair, brown eyes,
breathy voice and a musical heartbeat.

Also, I have thought about doing a little something on the side. I’ve written an erotica and published it on Wattpad (you can read it even if you don’t have an account), and might convert it into a series if you guys like it. Do read and respond by leaving comments here or on wattpad. Go there by clicking : here.