I Met Her In Poetry

I loved a woman of my age.
Young, beautiful and sensitive.
Who attracted me in and out, lurking through my page.

I caught her vision, her voice so musical.
Telling me to write more love
And I could describe her in paragraphs, forgetting all the rage.

I didn’t know the motive of her chase,
Day and night I fell hard. Hard in romance.
I came out as a lover in which I was caressed.

The breasts served me a pillow, tits so mushy, embarrassed with my touch.
I was poked with her decorated nails.
We moaned with tears of years.

There was so much of truth in our carnal pleasure. She loved me exactly that my romance talked about.
Her nails reached my sensitivity, groaning to stop.

But that didn’t stop. I could hear her heartbeat as clear as mine.
Our mutual eyes locked the physical bond.
And I pushed her hand inside me, causing me to grab her tight.

My vagina was hers. And she painted me white.
I drew circles on her back, creating sensations.
And she pressed my breasts, maybe telling me to touch her vulva.

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But I teased her warm labium, already running wild and wet.
That voice was more musical than I ever thought. The notes were perfectly high and erotic.
My fingers played with the fleshy clitoris as I tasted the skin of her neck.

I spoke her beautiful words in the ear. Every time she cries for more and more love
The hunger in our body was extremely rich.
I dropped myself down to nudge into her world, a world of us. The world with no curtains. We existed in the nakedness.

All I could feel was my head held closer at the time of releasing the excitement.
I could feel her loud vagina telling me to clear the mess.
And what in life, a beautiful mess to happen.

I loved a woman of my age,
But I met her only in my poetries.

Image Source: Still from the Film Badhaai Do via Canva Pro

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