The ink of my mind has been chronically drying. Lately, in years for the first time, I have come to know what is to be quiet. Not the usual quiet. The unusually weird and thrilling kind of a quiet. Particles of stillness lumber around the room. I can see light breaking through them. Splintering into minuscules of individual suns. Suns, floating around in the room, sticking themselves to the walls and the curtain, settling on the eye lid of this lover that sleeps next to me.
I do not see his body. I cannot touch upon his hairless skin or the bush of his hair. I see only the parts, on which these million suns, like dew, roll.
For today I see eyelids. As sun sets on the west of our intoxicated horizon, and rises from the east of our yearnings. I see the the eyelids that engulf the blazing crimson at the dusk, when we soaked ourselves in a watering hole, and the eyelids that unleash the overwhelming desire, compassion and togetherness into a light breaking dawn, where we wake up to part.
His eyelids flutter too much, quietly. In the midst of the sleep, they lose the count of the time and frequency of the flinches, shutter-bugging without any stimuli. Seems like they mime to themselves, and talk. Talk in the language so quiet, that it seems nearly ignorant of my presence outside them. Perhaps they have taken a picture of me and pasted it on the retina, and then they mop my image clean with few drops of tears that have built a perennial canal of dreams and thoughts.
I am happy to be cleaned out. Wiped off. I fall short of words and I stop talking to find his stoic eyes, enduring me like any other pain, luring me. It opens to acknowledge my presence and in split seconds slams me out, fearful of my intense magnetic stare.
At that slamming, I am fevered and I shiver, outside. Just as I was marching in, into his eyes, an inch at a time, a bit at a go, he closed midway. Now my half hangs outside, and half holds within. I flutter like a butterfly, half a wing hooked between a closed door, trying to pull itself away. Careful! The wings are brittle. Might torn apart. He snarls and sucks me in through his eyelids. Leaving me quieter. From passionately twitching to be left into the arms of the breaking silence of the dawn to giving in, to be pinned down, between the tiniest pair of eye rims.
Immediately, a stillness of surrender seeps inside me. Subservience is beauty at the behest of a genuine cluster of emotions, maybe devoid of love, however stacked with the pointlessly painful care and admiration.
Tranquility comes with unreasonable quiet, and I speak too much in the daylight. I ponder flower to flower, suck the nectar, and mound it in my hive. At night, in his encompassing embrace I bathe us in the honey dew. Honey drops emulating the million suns, that were created on my quest to calm.
I grow quieter. Quieter within and without. With him, or without.
-Kanksshi, From the land of Mystica