You think I exaggerate — a conceit,
a thoughtless phrase.
My sight is useless. At night, wrapped
in a blanket cocoon, eyes
tight closed, his eyes still bright
before me, plainly visible.
Ears fail me. What I hear
is sweeter than angelsong,
tender as new leaf,
sun kisses.
And touch — oh, do not speak
of touch. My skin against his
is holy, an incandescent flame,
an incoherence of desire,
thought extinguished.
His scent — rain in winter;
woodsmoke, rust and ice.
Nothing human.
Speech is worst of all. Listen
to me now; my words are stolen
away, and all I can say
is love.
Love.
Love has rendered me senseless.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
November 16, 1997
(for David, with thanks
to Roshani for the conceit)