She swept inside my blanket
in what must have been
the young hours of night
and hugged me tight.
Strangely,
she wasn't warm.
She came
with a beautiful chill,
that made me curl and cuddle.
She curved into
the curves i had,
She filled into
the spaces i made,
Delicately
moulding , shaping herself
completing me.
And then she made love to me.
So gently,
she never woke me up.
Never even let me know
except for
a distant sense of bliss
somewhere in the subconscious
between a dream, an unknowing smile
and infinite void.
It was only when
I woke up wasted at dawn,
to find crushed bangles
and crumpled bedsheets
in those puddles
filled with dead fireflies,
in the soaked wet newspaper in the porch
in the dampness of my glass windows
in the drops dripping of leaflets
and in that strange unique green
that was everywhere
That i came to know,
she had been there.
What she had done to me.
That silly, naughty
beauty named rain.
