The rains have been the most awaited season of my life. I love the fresh rain falling on my perch, releasing the intense aroma of craving earth. I can relate myself to that lonesome earth, which gets drenched with the moisture of heaven.
I remember, when we used to make love. I could feel the goosebumps, every time I nibbled through that slender neck. The fervour of your love would last on my skin for the rest of day. Even after years, I starkly remember the days when I used to go to work after that morning love and your smell could linger on my body.
There were times when I resisted the artificial perfume on that orange skin. The freshness of last shower with water droplets on your tidy skin, melting my lust to the core. I remember those passionate scrubs when I licked off every tiny droplet of water off your skin.
Times, how we made love for hours sweating in the drizzles of monsoon on the terrace of a rented appartment. Times when the bike drives used to be romantic in the torrential rain.
Time has changed. How it changed me, I don’t realise until this season. Rains are no more a romantic stride. The season holds the melancholy of your memoirs. They bring pain. They bleed through my lonely heart in the agony of how we loved each other.