Saying you’re the best thing that happened to me is an understatement. It’s a euphemism for something so much more complex, complicated and contorted in a good way. I guess I like odd shapes, and sharp objects. Saying you’re the woman I need is simplification. I’m just reducing you to a string of letters tied together by the click and the clack of the keyboard. I always aim for an elegant love, smooth as purple velvet, soaked with a little wine, but I find myself giving you something raw and coarse, like a cheap motel room smelling of sex, and riddled with tobacco buds, and half-opened cans of beer, the alcohol still oozing out. I carve out my soul, and merge the ugliness and the pure, the light and the darkness to give you something stripped bare of all superficiality. And, I know you like doing the same. We’ve tied each other to these whipping posts and flay each other with a brutal love capable of conquering. And it isn’t idolatry or veneration because that’s cheap. It isn’t some idea driven garbage of who we’ll be three years from now, or poetic nonsense of bringing us down to art. You’ll find that shit on BuzzFeed. And it isn’t seeing each other like cherubs one second, and acid-faced demonic apparitions the next, making up with a bipolar mixed-episode sex. Sex is just the sprinkling on the top, the added spice and it never stings, it elevates. And I don’t need to write a hardcore sex, purple prose poem about plastering my microscopic images in your pink little room of delight. I love you as you are: grey or orange or beige, never pristine white or black: adoring or forever yearning. I accept you as you are: a person of depth who takes responsibility, and acknowledges her fuck ups, just like you do the same for me. I give you your freedom, and you give me mine. And I wouldn’t have this relationship progressing in any other way.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)