My bonding with few men in my life will be eternal. It will be beyond ages. Well, I will not live for ages. But my affection with many who touched the peak of lust will be immortal. That affection will never never die. Fortunately or unfortunately, many men had craved for that affection.

But, I have to pass away. Wish I could have been forever!! Immortality is not in my fate. I am very sure it is not only the immortality, but also there was no single man in my life who could forever be with me. All of them were transient (ephemeral). They came like the seasons and passed away. They were the ones who rekindled my femininity. I used to get lost in the bliss of womanhood. The feeling of being loved and touched with one’s soul is so pure. It beholds no Skin and Flesh and is finally divine.

Perversely, the skin and flesh is the only channel through which we could connect. The connection of two souls is/was always Limitless and Infinite. It is not volatile in reality, although gets dissipated in reality.

Every night passes away without the touch of his lips. Every minute tests me to be without the feel of his in my nape. Every second alleviates within me the patience to be solitary. Within this solitude is my soul en captured which wants to be free with “him”. It wants to quench its thirst and live the beatification of Earthly pleasure. However, it was a doom. Time has made me accept to be a slave of its ruthlessness. I feel I was born with the destiny of feeling the agony of the ravages of time.

Tears roll down my eyes …. Those dark lashes become moist and my thoughts get engrossed when I realise that a day will come when I have to leave and that is again a decision of time. Where will my soul go? Will it become liberated and eternalized or else will it keep on cherishing and looking for them whom it could not fetch in this birth? My tears comprise the unending ache of loosing time and again. The pain of loosing the many so called “Men” who were defeated in the battle of winning my “Vehement Clandestine and Ecstasic Charm”. Yes, this charm (The writer himself/herself) might be wandering as a dissatisfied soul in order to achieve its plenitude. The more I ponder on this, the more are my nights melancholic.

Subhagata Das
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