The Bengali Chic

I was in love. The kind where you surrender your insecurity at the mercy of the other, hoping they would hide it with their affections. The kind where you could tell from their sigh what exactly they were feeling. I was in love,  the kind where you can tell how their day went by the tilt of their head, the kind where you could predict their moods for the ice cream flavour they craved. I was in love, the kind where I could feel his night mares in my dreams, the kind, where you get vulnerable to an extent where the scars are merely transparent glasses which show the heart, the kind where you feel no power yet fulfilled when they exists in your sphere.  I was in love, the kind where I could read his eyes and tell what his mind was thinking, the kind where I could predict his words and yet stay silenced only to hear it in his voice. I was in love with someone, who only existed in my dreams. for that kind of love only exists in books, which are written by mad men like me.  ...

Eccentric as it could get, the yearning of warmth from a body, to rekindle the joyous euphony of desires only to be lost in the symphony of your heart beat. I rise as the Phoenix from the ashes of your studded lustrous eyes, calling my name after 9pm at night. I fear not walk the halls to your office, which harbours your wife’s picture, I see no photo frame, since I ravaged on that table. Is it the chemistry of the endearing youthfulness, do you long to be taken by my younger vixens. I rather not look you in the eye as I walk past you in the hallway, the students you talking to might notice you longing for my essence.  It was not love, as you called it affection.  “Affection”, you say, what looked to me like an obvious rekindle. You crave the euphoria, eight years of marriage and yet you feel the fear, fear to explore your long wasted youth on your mediocre midwife, who I laid in my bed while you dreamed about our frugal encounter. I know you explored through my inches as you ...