I was fully drunk when I wrote this. I know the drunken part because this post was saved in blogger and the day's event were mentioned in the post itself (I have removed it obviously). I had had half a bottle of wine at a friend's dinner party and when I came home, my French neighbor presented me with a small bottle (around four shots) of whiskey. Once back in my room, I had it without thinking of repercussions and thanking that it was Friday night.
I see you walking, no, gliding across the club teetering amidst gyrating bodies who move with the vibe of the club which seem to have come alive this evening with music being its pulse. You stop, smile, talk, laugh and move on the floor gracefully dancing to a rhythm that makes sense only to me. Or is it my imagination that I find synchrony in my heartbeats and your movements across the dance floor? When our eyes meet, the glass in my hand starts to slip and I continue to look into your eyes across bodies flaying hands and legs and hips and I distinctly hear the tinkling sound of glass shattering on floor and a guy standing next to me yelling - "Fuck you moron". The pull that I feel towards you is magnetic; its either that or its my desire fuddled brain which makes me sober enough to provide me with fleeting glances of pages of sappy poetry which explained the connection shared by two individuals. You know, I actually Googled the color of your eyes and I got eighty four fucking million hits on that and by the time I finished first eighteen pages, I realized that no one had come nearly close to explaining the right shade of your eyes.
This was never part of the grand plan; falling in love that is.
There are times when I want to give into the sweet surrender and declare my love to you in the most romantic way. I would perhaps start with courting you and inviting you for expensive dining, tasteful entertainment and gentle kisses. And when I would lean in really close to get that proverbial kiss on the porch, perhaps that would allow me to get a closer glimpse of your eyes and give me enough time to count the exact number of freckles on your nose. Perhaps it is a good way.
But you know what? It sounds like a bloody cosmic joke. Anti-thesis of what we are. As I walk towards you all the romantic things that my heart keeps singing sounds like load of bullshit and I come up with a plan that is more feral, more primal and more us. Here we are at a party where we keep up the masks that we wear in front of the crowds, we follow the charade that we have been doing all these while and when at the first stroke of midnight I will drag you from this club and drive you away and make love to you till you bleed. And then I will look into your eyes with you staring back to mine with equal fervor and then I would be able to explain every shade of color that I see and map out every tiny little freckle on your nose.
And then I might tell you how much I love you.
Labels: Writing
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