Rêve de minuit

Rêve de minuit

Stepping out of my midnight dream
I disowned my conscience in the most overlooked corner of your room.
A band-aid or two will hide the silent wounds, I am sure.
So I get back to staring at you —
Glistening in a sweaty glaze of my pungent perfume.
A hundred rupees, it costs – a local bottle, with a fake French touch.
A hundred rupees was what I cost too;
On my first night, with cheap rouge dabbed on my numb cheeks.
You see, one I still remember.
A middle-aged father, with coarse yellowed hands on my breasts.
He had cried too when he asked my age in the end.
I heard your lips mutter a woman in a tired sleep.
I loved watching the soft caress of pain on your sleeping face.
You never kissed me tonight.
(Well, they hardly do)
But, you,
You searched for something near my navel – a known scar, a freckle, maybe a tattoo?
You sank into your pillow – a shade of pristine white.
Before you fucked me hard with clenched teeth and teary eyes,
Like I was all rubber and grit.
It’s late.
I have bagged the cheque you left under the bedside lamp.
I should get going, one more to attend tonight.
Let me write this down somewhere then.
“I pray you get her back.
And flood her navel with kisses.”
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