By Avinaba Sarkar
That day under the tree the morning breeze was carrying the enigma of life, when I saw a carafe
sitting by me. As I drew closer, the scent of her spirit blew me out of the water. I was tempted to
sniff to the last drop. I presume the creeper encircling the tree knows of my venereal thoughts. It has
seen me set my sights on her flared lip, longing to drink her wine. I could’ve killed me for a few more
moments drenched in that smell, but I had to pull out.
How could I have taken her? There was no
evidence of union. So I left her there and I travel in her essence, ever since.
My existence now houses a contour of that aroma, leaving an eternal thirst on my lips. And if I am to
take the lid off, then it’s madness. But believe me whoever reads, if you would have known you too
would choose madness over sanity. That day I bottled myself in that carafe. I know now that in
reality I haven’t moved an inch away from her. And though I have not drank a droplet of her wine, I
am intoxicated.
So like a painter I will keep my canvas untouched. Waiting for my inspiration to bring in the colors.
One day, under some tree.
By Avinaba Sarkar
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