As I sit there under the nocturnal sky, I can feel your mind wandering around my body, wanting to have me as your canvas.
Your fingers creating little swirls down my naive bare back; art not meant to be appreciated by others but perceived by me & you & us. Slowly, the stars start hiding behind the dark grey smog that we romantics still call clouds, apprehensive of coming between us & all that we might conclude to. My mind, cautious, but your touch slowly turning all my learnt decency & womanhood into that of a credulous nymph. I don’t mind it really. This isn’t lust in its pure form. For there is no one to adjudicate our callowness. We’re miles away from all their conjectures & criticisms. It’s just you, me, & the night.


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