Is it...?

Coloured fingertips; the ethereal powder

Escapes my grasp with a brush of elusive lepidoptera wings

Did I just touch magic? 

Or did I feel love?

Bated breath; the brilliant orb, now ochre, now coral

Bids daily farewell; wanes sanguine at the eternal crease like your half closed eyes

Did a miracle just unfold?

Or canvas of love?

Stolen smiles; unspoken words, lines crisscross against blue skies

Taut longing emerges over the crackling static

When nothing makes sense and sense means nothing

Is this love?

Clipped fingernails; orange juice dregs, everyday fragments

The dimples in the bed slowly filling

Warms me even when you’re gone 

Is that ephemeral or a glimpse of the divine?

Isn’t this love. 

Anuradha Venkatnarayan 

Touched

I turn the page, impatient

Petulant eyes scouring the black on sepia

cursing the seconds lost, 

the eyes trying to focus on the new words

aching to make sense

Like a lover seeking consent

May I kiss you once more?

Words leap out at me

demanding attention,

coaxing me to line my mind’s inner shelves

a perfume laying claim to the vacant air

bribing my thoughts to concur

seducing a response from me 

leaving me gasping for the right feeling.

A deep ink envelops; unnoticed

Words lay claim to my being

I comply outright; deep-dyed

sinking deep into the well of meaning

Unwilling to flail, float, feel

The ink swallows me;

I feel touched.