The kind of love that does not have an ending or beginning. The kind that is taboo. The ones that aren’t meant to exist. As you see him sitting in the corner of the room, you can’t help but make love to him over and over. Push him on the couch and look into his eyes. Pour some wine over his chest and drench yourself in his forbidden love. The kind of love that don’t end up becoming a novel but the endless threads of timeless tales told in your mind. Tales that make life worthy enough to live. The kind of love that stops you from going forward and also the kind that makes you run with the wind.
As you see him walk past you, the air is filled with your nasty thoughts about him. Thoughts that breaks relationships. The ones that are tied by the neck. Yet, your love for him has gone over the never ending galaxies in which stars make babies.
You want him but once you get him, your thoughts about him die. It leaves your body like the fragrance from a wild lily. You don’t see that passion anymore. You don’t see that dying need of desire anymore. There is no denying this dirty little truth. The divine happiness of not owning your desire is a high that no alcohol can give.
The detachment is what that keeps the relationship going. It’s that desperate measure to reach out to that person mentally or physically or both that gives life to it. The minute you own each other, it’s gone. When you know you don’t have the luxury of every night and day with each other, you want to steal him from the room full of people in your get together and kiss the back of his neck in the terrace with moonlight safeguarding you both from the crowd.
A sort of relationship that helps you question your morality everyday. A kind that makes you hate yourself for what you are doing. You see him again and you question not your morality but your soul and the kind of thing it’s made of and soul wins hands down.
You know he has a her. He knows you have a he and yet you become each others space. A space that is filled with thoughts that galaxies are made of. A space that let’s you be who you want to be without the pretentiousness of a socially acceptable relationship. A space which let’s you go wild, go slow, or not go anywhere at all.
At times, a perfect relationship is something where there isn’t one that exists. A relationship which lets you breathe, to go breathless, to let go, to hold on, to go slow , to run with the wind, to stop by and cherish, to stop by and say goodbye. A relationship that doesn’t exist, but also the one that gives you the urge to live and not just exist.
Mangoes are sweet. A mango that’s not yours, even sweeter…!