Post Script

Just after sex,
You lie on your side
Retiring yourself.
The mop of hair is a little chaotic,
Which suits the talkative smile
That looks a little unhinged from here.
The air is full of sweat
And sour pickles.
You tap your toes to some unknown tune.
 
The discussion we have-
Are having-
Is sexual.
We discuss tongues in odd places
And censored fluids.
It’s sexual.
Yet
Not.
You giggle in your irritating way
While I think of witty reprisals.
 
It feels like an epistolary novel.
A conversation full of long monologues,
Disjointed in its edges; falling apart, if not for the wonderful prose.
Our replies are hidden within our letters;
They are simply expressions of repressed conversations
That weren’t allowed.
 
– Shakya
(The picture belongs to me, along with the rest of the post… :3 )
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