Sex and Senorita

Imagine having to breathe without a lung, or taste raw salt without the taste buds. Evenings will vibrate and the chandeliers will re-group after their 21st.Nobody ever stopped dancing, and to lie inside a room filled with promiscuous candles—those that never made you feel any human at all.

Inside the casket, dripping vinegar—portraits that took away the mind with the onset of my 13. I wonder, with the mind that has to challenge its own miseries every time the winds start walking against our compulsion to make love.

Such a beautiful thing it is, to fly yet to be attached to the same tree over and over again. Food, stolen charm and remorseless fairytales—those that the philosophers warned us about. And her silk is starting to undress itself, pity on the imposters of 18, rain that is just a royal attire.

She walks like everyone is looking at her—and to love a guy, she will never. A heart that has its veins rushing with crayons, paintings which are a beautiful game. Thirst increases and so does the desire to hold a hand—calling it the art of construction that natural selection has it.

So she walks past me, along with the roses that have starved to death, unable to express the urges that has it contained. She thinks that she is special, and the line outside the mall is just an idiotic proposal just to get into her pants. Perhaps she is right, perhaps not. But to the reality of life, seconds submerging with seclusion the center of the heart—there is no sex, all but a curse that dies with the barrier.

If one were to fly, the frost that will have it restrained. She thinks that she has a thing, so a price tag that no one can afford. Looking left, a guy with three ounces of gold and a platinum to his name—she undresses her panties like it was nothing.

Nights are filled with unregretful and unprotected sex, sigh, nobody to listen or what is a tear—lover that has his heart rushing with angled emotions. She is moaning and dancing on his shoulders, she likes it but tomorrow—she forgets the guy who crafted his way into her panties.

Sex has become a casual thing, out of seashell and semantic gardens—glare at the unclothed virgin whose touch is under question. Every time the vases try to walk past me, reason to have sex when she questions the morality of regret. Clouds that do not dare—rainbows that will never. A moment with butterflies and ecstatic scenes. The sheets that will shy away, no longer to watch her having sex with three frangipanis at once.

And all that life, or if there is anything left of sex—sedated mind and overwhelming urges. I fail to understand, if it weren’t for the beautiful misery inside each sleep, knowing that Senorita is making love to every flower she meets. It’s the one thing that pleases her.

-Yogesh Chandra