I remember the glistening invitation of your dark eyes,
the swirl of your sari as we snatched kisses on the stairs,
trying to conceal the yearning to touch
from hostile critical eyes
which know you have no say
in the choice of love.

We accept an abrupt end to an affair
not yet started and meet once more.

Facing you my lips are dry
to the questions I see in your eyes
and your hair’s careless sweep.
I have forgotten cliches
in the intimacy of our talk and touch:
my unused lips cannot express
my unanalysed need
to take you gently
and convince even you of your sweetness.