If Men Were Seasons

If men were seasons,

spring would be my lover.
The one to cuddle up to and kiss from behind,

the one who my heart would bloom for when his smile would shed some light.

With whom I would go out to dinners and have a pleasant conversation.

We'd return home to close those garden doors,

lay there with his mouth picking on me and mine on him to softly ... pollinate.

If men were seasons,
summer love would be my favourite.

Where I'd take a dip in the pool I call his eyes and stare at him with an intention so wild. I'd leave my mark all over this beach, scraping each sand granule like it was mine to eat.

There are some rules in my summer, I'll see you when the sun sets until the rainy days come closer. But then I'd like to see you walk away and mirror that image with the waves fading those marks on the beach away.

If men were seasons,

the rains would be empty because no man could fill my heart the way I could when those drops fall on me. I would be my own cup of tea and music would be my pakodhas.

Dancing in the rain, I'd remember spring and be thankful for monsoon - for spring taught me to love another and the rains taught me to love myself.

If men were seasons,

autumn would be the fool - the fool who could let luscious leaves fall like her hair from his hands.

The fool who willingly stood empty while watching the flowers slip away. The fool who was so beautiful that its bare branches mimicked collar bones so familiar, a jawline so lickable and fiery eyes with passion for one - just himself.

If men were seasons,

winter would speak Urdu and tell me how he can't take his eyes off me, to which
I would shiver because I knew he was far more deeply in love with me than I was, than I ever could be.

He would hug me trying to warm my mind up to him,

kiss me trying to sprint past my lies.

- little did he know, my name is Him-angini and it means, the one with the body of ice.

15.05.19 | 1:30 PM