near you, on tiptoes

,

You have stayed like a stone;
Though you have kept within me the liquid desire...
And I pluck blooms out of  the void,
And sacrifice my best, prized flower
On the bed of consummation,
Ignite the core of my heart with the help of the distant star-

Filling my folded palms with several other arrangements-
Wishing every time to inch towards you,
Near you...

The Return

Will you not leave anything for me,
Now that you have wiped out all marks pregnant!
Why do you rob the colour off the Ashoke blooms, red,
Born out of silence and neglect, clandestinely,
At a corner of the grey street?
Emptying your palms
You try to etch out pictures of rich, sensuous youthfulness,
Forgetting those marks of divinity on the white marble...
Where have you kept that unsavored glorious light of yours?
Why do you wear on your eyes, turned away from me,
Blackness of the burnt out taper-
Wishing only the courage of the breezy, deserted  terrace
On a full moon night!