Surreal Fog, Moutain Breeze and Your Fragrance

You sit by the tent and the surreal
mountain fog brushes off your face,
turning it a shade red and the ethereal
breeze conjures harmonies with your hair
making them play hide and seek with
eyes. Your eyes search for something, what
did you lose in these mountains, I wonder.
I sit by your side, you smile and your
fragrance dances around, filling the space
between us. It is almost sunset and the air
is getting colder here, sending invisible signs
for us to go inside. Let us go inside, you say
and the air mysteriously laughs on its triumph.
The fire inside burns just all right, competing
with the one within us. But my hands are cold
and your lips are too numb to speak. Did
you bring all that cold breeze inside, trapping
it inside the tiny curls in your hair? You hold my
hands, they are too cold, you say and slide them
inside your jacket. Your tender waistline
curves like the valleys these mountains carve
and my fingers turn nomad, treading every
inch soulfully. And I hold you a little closer
than our bodies approve and you moan
a little louder than the silence approves.
It is midnight now and the fire starts dying.
The sweat beads on your bare body start
dissolving into the fog. I walk outside and sit
by the tent. Seems like you are trying to
find something in the mountains, you say
from inside, your voice charred by tired lips.
I am trying to find what you lost here, I say.
You smile and come outside and sit by my side,
leaving spaces between us to be filled with
your fragrance. Do you always do it on purpose?
Same time next year, you ask.
I’ve read too much of Hosseini to know
that, for you, I would do this
a thousand times over, I think.
Why not, I say.

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