Sing me one of the songs of my childhood about the happy farmer. Or the one About assembling a kite. Sing for me as i sit uncomfortably on this kitchen chair.
Tell me about your days as a little dancer in the ramayana. About your strolls with your dad through the market.
Tell me how you and your friends used to place a scorpion against a river crab in a death match, just for fun. How you were squatting and giggling amongst the lush fruiting trees the english language fails to know the names. Tell me about all of your good times as i watch your smile being weighted down by longing, your eyes by disappointments.
Tell me as i get up from this sharp, angular seat and move closer to you on the bed, with my head resting on your bony overworked shoulder, and my face brushing your stiff, wavy hair.
Tell me through your touching my cheeks, how drained you are now. Tell me through massaging my knotted back, how broken your back is after thousands of miles of restless marching, swimming, crossing, walking, breathing, sweating... how you continued and haven't stopped and rested.
I wish i could touch you the way you touch me. But there's no way.
My desire for your voice, your smell, your touch, your strength has become an obsession.
Don't worry. My obsession will not harm you. This desire will only be my awakening.
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