Meeting you, at that Indie concert, where a local band covered Marc Broussard; the blue haze of both the lighting and you exhaling after taking a drag from that slender cigarette you were smoking, the dark beige of the cocktail in your hands, breathed meaning into my being and gave me a drift from a society full of obscurantism, suspicions and superstitious. We were young, rebellious and carefree, so disintegrated and yet held together by our individual and collective red bands of anarchism. I think of then now, and though age has made me nuanced and more eloquent, toning down my Rabelaisian wit, and raw hunger for independence, making me want to give and take, forgive and respect, and no longer dismiss convention with a flip of the finger like I’d have done then, a part of me still wants the thrill of existing with you in motel rooms, making our own music, while some band performs downstairs, our crotchets with each gentle bite of the lip, our chords of me unhooking your bra, and you gently unbuttoning me. You always liked that scar on my stomach. The neo-classical rock arpeggios that followed while we studied every inch of each other, skin grazing skin, and then whispers and echoes of something primal, something medieval giving us the pleasure and pain of becoming one, and our synergy giving us this heightened sense of both awareness and dissociation – the apex of our union. But this is just one facet I crave for. I long for the subtle, spontaneous kisses, when you looked at me with a faint lascivious smile, and I drew you closer and held you and it didn’t matter when, why or how because all that mattered lay in those eyes closed, and soft kisses. I long for impromptu dances in the slice of the moonlight, in those closed parks, after we’d climbed the locked gates and found in each other the courage and strength to dare to dream for more, and there was no stopping us. I long to see you again, because I know that where and who we are won’t matter. There’ll be an outpouring of laughter and tears and we’ll still love each other like we did then.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)