Curved lines.. (3)
Eight in the night.
I was twenty three,he twenty six.
In the backyard of my house again,
Now lighted up and decorated with sparkling lights,
The fire in the centre of the pandal burning,
He held my hand lightly.
The bangles shimmering sound,
Drowned in the blessings of the relatives,
And the pandit present.
Round the fire---seven times.
His finger ran up the partition
In my hair.
That crimson red powder,
While transparent drops of water
Dripped from my black bordered eyes,
On his hand.
He bent over to put the necklace,
His hair brushed against my cheekbone,
A burning feeling grasped me,
My eyes turned red from the tears,
When he looked right into them..
Placed his hand below my neck,
Until my breathing slowed down.
He was always mine.
Not too far from me,he was.
If I touched him,he would touch me back.
If I looked at him,he would look back.
If I cried,he would too.
When I held his hand tightly,he let me do so..