“There Is Nothing I Would Not Do For Those Who Are Really My Friends. I Have No Notion Of Loving People

Somewhere between obsession and destruction, I exist.

Identity

I am a dissatisfied soul who is bound in the shackles of unspoken feelings. I am a traveler who travels alone and is involved to incite the glimmer lamp of life. I am the enlighten essence of poetry. I play the flute of intimacy of love. I like the fragrance of orange jasmine of the white garden. I am ready to die for the pink rose growing in the snow. I am sad for your cutted black hair. The memory of your decorated colorful skirt makes me desperate. I am burnt as it fades away. I am waiting for you.

অব্যক্ত অনুভূতির শৃঙ্খলে আবদ্ধ এক অতৃপ্ত আত্মা। মিটমিট করে জ্বলে যাওয়া জীবন প্রদীপকে উদ্দীপ্ত করতে নিয়োজিত একলা পথচলা এক পথিক যার মনোজগত সবসময় উদ্ভাসিত। আমি রোদেলা কাব্যের কাব্যরস। আমি প্রণয়ের বাজাই বাঁশি। শুভ্র কাননে কামিনী ফুলের সুবাস আমায় মুগ্ধ করে। আমি বরফে জন্মানো গোলাপী গোলাপের জন্য মরতে প্রস্তুত। আমি তোমার কেটে ফেলা কালো কেশের জন্য ব্যথিত। হরেক রঙে সাজানো তোমার স্কার্ট আজও আমায় স্মৃতিকাতর করে। আমি তার রঙ হারানোর বেদনায় দগ্ধ। আমি নির্ঘুম। আজ আমি তোমার জন্য অপেক্ষারত।

“Goodnight and great love to you. We see the same stars.”

— George Mallory

“There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong.”

— Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

There was only void, and how are you supposed to give form to something that doesn’t exist?

― Haruki Murakami

“Many things interested her, and nothing satisfied her entirely.”

— Ivan Turgenev, Fathers and Sons (via books-n-quotes)

“She reminded me of the sea; the way she came dancing towards you, wild and beautiful, and just when she was almost close enough to touch she’d rush away again.”

— Unknown

Still.

I miss you so much in this moment. My skin comes alive with chills. My eyes, with tears. My heart with a dull, familiar ache.

I wish you could hear me. I wish you could sense how much I need you. I wish you could see who I am. I wish you would come back to me again.

How could you just let me go And live on without a word or a thought?

How could you just walk away Without a wonder or a regret?

How am I supposed to forget you When your body brought me to life? Even though you almost extinguished the fire in my soul.

Your neck. Your back. Your arms. Your hands.

Your fingers.

Your chest. Your stomach. Your hips.

Your thighs. Your calves. Your feet. Your toes.

The heat between your legs.

Your hair. Your ears.

Your eyes. Those eyes.

Your lips. Your nose.

Your voice. Your breath.

Your kisses.

Your smile. Your laughter.

I miss all of you. I remember all of you. Every precious inch of you.

I remember the way you felt inside of me. I remember the way your body moved, Always with intention; Always in control. Steady. Strong.

I remember the weight of your silhouette And your hips between my legs While you leaned down to kiss me And I curled my fingers in your hair, Wrapped my thighs around your waist.

I let myself dissolve into your rhythm. I let you lose yourself inside of me.

I remember catching your groans in my throat, The play of your tongue.

I remember how it felt To inhale your breath. It was sweeter than any air. It was pure energy. It fed me.

I remember your whispers. Your questions. Your instructions. Your revelations. “Yes.”

I begged you “Please.” Always. “More.”

I called out to God. I moaned your praises.

You are etched into my mind.

You are traced into my soul.

You are bringing me to my knees. Without a word, without a glance, without a breath.

I’m shackled by a memory. A ghost.

“It is well known that those in the grip of heavy enchantments can be wakened only by a lover’s touch. Those who seem dead, who are already returning to the earth, can be restored to life, quickened again by one who is warm. Then, it being night, and the twin stars of Castor and Pollux just visible in the sky, I spoke of that tragedy, of two brothers whose love we might find unnatural, so stricken in grief when one was killed that the other, begging for his life again, accepted instead that for half the year one might live, and for the rest of the year the other, but never the two together. So it is for us, who while on earth in these suits of lead sense the presence of one we love, not far away but too far to touch.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Sexing the Cherry