27.10.24
It was a wet Sunday morning —
the kind that hums,
where rain slicks the windowpanes
like yearning stretched thin over silence.
When the Portal opened, we hardly spoke.
our tongues preferring instead to salvage years of distance.
Upstairs, steam curled in the air.
I stepped into water—
cleansing, claiming, consecrating.
Drops raced down my thighs,
each one a question I dared not answer.
You arrived with gravity
As one who’d made peace with time.
Silver at your temples,
storm in your gaze—
you studied me not like a book,
but like a confession I hadn’t yet made.
The delicate knowing between us—
humming, curious.
Did not love, it obeyed.
You watched as I surrendered—
arched,
breath trembled
hands gripped,
voice dissolved
Room became sky,
and I—
Ocean.
My skin and yours—ink and parchment.
A contrast made of myth.
Echoes— not opposites.
Fire and Water.
Desire reflected in unfamiliar accents.
“Vanilla,” she said—
as if softness were absence, as if the quiet didn’t beckon.
– Lele
Lele Muthali 