Cliched



That odd moment when the warmth and softness of another hand fits right into yours through the small loop between your awkwardly bent elbow and the concave curve of your waist.
That odd moment when his head hangs halfway in the air because your shoulders are too tiny for him.  That odd moment of realisation when your bodies hug and your limbs are twisted but you do not realise that your back has gone stiff until next morning.

Or is it when that flock of pigeons sitting on the terrace of a concrete jungle shudder with the eagle barging in the middle of nowhere. Or is it when he drinks the coffee you made in a beer mug. Or when he dips his rusk biscuits in your cup of tea. Or is it when he is concerned because you have been way too long in the bathroom getting your hair to look perfect.

Oh, I know it. Its his sleepy, morning voice. Its the way his cold hands slide on your back but you still pull him closer. It is how his shirt is too big for you but you wear it anyway.

My eyelids are weighed down with sleep. My throat has gone sore from laughing like maniacs. And I cannot have enough of life yet anyway because I haven't read him all the poems I love, let the words pour with a light sizzle like whiskey on uneven shards of ice. 

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