Let me hold your waist she says
Mischief glinting in her brown eyes
“No” he sternly replies
“Please” she says simply
The mischief a little subdued
“I’m the guy, you shouldn’t hold my waist”
“I like holding your waist” she tells him
“Its sharp angles delight my hands”
“You like it when I hold your waist, it makes you feel loved”
He laughs, his laughter is tinged with exasperation.
“I don’t like it oooooo” his voice rises.
She smiles now, she knows he likes it
When he’s angry about something his voice lowers
He’ll express his feelings very calmly
She tries to hold his waist
He pins her hand with his larger hand
She wiggles impotently
Eventually they talk about other things as they walk on the dusty road
He lets go of her hand
She slyly puts it on his waist and rests her head on his shoulder
This is her favourite position
He pinches her back and looks at the hand on his waist
Her triumphant smirk makes him chuckle
They continue talking until her bus comes
About everything and nothing
It is their ritual
The thing they call love.
You and me is US
The thing called us
How can I describe it?
Is it like the snake I saw when I was eleven
Shiny, silvery and shimmery
Or the Imo river in my hometown
Quiet, green and deep
Is it diamond hard with a fire that burns the eye?
Cognac smooth with a flame that scorches the belly?
Or as beautiful as vodka on a cold morning, with its welcome mouth burning heat.
Perhaps it’s a phoenix that is reborn in flame
Rising from its ashes
We’ve tried to kill it
We starved it and kicked it like a sick dog
It only hibernates and springs renewed.
We’ve walked away with our faces set like flint
Swearing never to return
Yet the winding paths of life bring us back to…..
It’s not you
Neither is it me
It’s a beautiful thing that transcends you and me
It’s carbon and heat making the most precious gem
It’s you and me
You and me is us.
For Tee Zagira and the memories…